fiending for pizza this evening, i ran to the joint still open after nine. loitering outside were tall and golden men of the basketball team of a catholic university by the edge of our neighborhood. i shirked to the greasy spoon a block away.
“every one gorgeous comes out during the warm days,” a friend often tells me. it is so racking, this summer living. no other time reminds me more of my inadequacies.
the mexican narco-gangster legend, el chapo guzman, during his first stint in prison, constantly wrote gushy love letters to a female inmate zulema. “my love, i dreamed of you last night. it was so real that when i woke up, i felt beautiful inside.”