I am writing the last chapter. State fairs and musicals fill the city. A season for leaving is coming. The symptoms start to appear: endless music, parades, parties, carnavales, vacaciones. We soak our dreams in alcohol and hang them to dry. Smoke our **** trying to forget. They told me not to look back in anger but it looks the same in every city. She was all I’ve had, Maria. I met her in the trail of broken ankles. Or maybe it was in the woods, what’s the difference? Now, she has become a replaceable friend. I won’t grief, instead I’ll go out and shoot a star. Yesterday I saw her for the last time. It is the final level; she gives me a wine glass and I zip it down putting everything away. Time as a window, I try to fight this urge. All this moments will become deaf photographs, just a printed memory–a life of separated realities. I will just keep packing my suitcase chasing shadows.  I drink and tell stories, some call it fantasy but I just bent over life and practice witchcraft. I am just tired of watching all the flowers turn to stone. I am afraid I will drift into words.