![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8uu6IpKkYQAzQq3t9S4zxBPRSl1VVuJUY_HvciuA2hOrV0WqQM_4vGwAVB5d4D9U8RuWuIQs6YuLF8qg6ejWAc5v55ByvpG7e_L6SsYE1Wlm7VD8oUiYLzU5FCf-U-elsInb7Fg/s400/Analect2.351x.jpg)
20 September 2008. Two dark bird shapes against pinkish gray sky, heading west. Dawn. Ying behind pool counter, already smiling. Her ancient block-like Lincoln moored at curb, corroded grays in early light.
Llanura. A man of few words. Qué no dice mucho. Lo quería conocer, pero no se paraba de hablar... I wanted to understand him, but he just kept talking. Better to offer a smoke, see how he accepts it, lights up. The gesture. As in coiling a rope--something simple, revealing...
La cosa es así...
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