Hi Baby. It's taken me so much longer than I hoped to get a few words down. Still no phone of my own yet, but finally saved up to get a place. It's only a studio, but one tall-ass window opens up onto a veranda big enough for me to sit in my chair and watch the neighbors’ houses light up as the night falls. Maybe I'll start growing some vines to creep over the railing. Not that it was so bad at my daddy's, but you know how I am. We'd sit up until sunrise playing cards in the kitchen. Still don't talk much, at least not yet, but the silences are more settled. Job's aight. The usual mustachioed psychopath at the helm, and mostly Mexicans instead of Salvadoreños. My Spanish is getting along good. I hope you are too. Sometimes I ride my bike out to sit under the live oaks and daydream about what they've grown up witness to. I thought you'd like to see one. Write to me, please? Even if you're still mad. Please kiss your pretty face in the mirror for me.
The 90th Burning of Zozobra at Fort Marcy Park
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