Days over, suns down, loosen up hotel arvor. Sorry T-bone, your room was booked at hotel amour. But down the street in top room, on bed top, q-flash, we let down our hair. The paris streets found their way to our duvet, and now dirty sheets, via the soles of our feet.
Don’t think I left my room for more then 15 minutes the whole time I was in Mexico at Los Gaviotas last year. Maybe to buy a cup of mango slices from the lady on the side of the road. But that was about it. The rest of the time was spent here in this space. Watching as Katrina wondered around the room. Writing. Writing. Writing in her journal that I will never read. Not because she wont let me but because I don’t want to know. Don’t want to know what she writes in our room in Rosarito about me as I sit and watch her writing.