Half my motherland. The one who saves. At least that´s the expectation. I finally saw where they put you in the ground and how they put the other half of my enigma behind you. It makes a little more sense to see legends made life. The very post where you were gunned down. The swinging doors where you fell backwards and choked on your own blood before the doctor found you. It seems less like a dream and more like the sad truth that it is. And you behind him, nothing but a splinter in my heart. What is it that made you never give a fuck that we exist? What is it that made you want to give me the gift of emptiness when it came to you? To bleed from that splinter--your blood, your flesh, your creation . . .

The landscape beautiful, but the humanity . . . the injustice. Yet children March for independence and run down the highways with the torch that will set them free.

My cab driver was complaining that a cup of coffee was forty cents at the plaza. It made me want to find every Starbutts I could see and burn them to the ground. That would be freedom.

I see why the shutter is my addiction now, as I seek out people that will lend me their photos to take pictures of them, so that maybe I can piece together what I am. Where I came from. No descendent of mine will share that pain so long as I can help it.