DAY 42

Tulum is made for falling in love. Alejandro, the 16 year old from Mexico City said I was "muy guapa." He looked like the football player that I, A: never went to high school with and B: if I had, would've never been intersted in me. Combine A and B with C: I'm in fucking paradise, and somehow I began justifying prossibilities of making out with a child. Caribbean air does strange things. Mayan mud treatments, swimming in the jungle, fresh limes. Incessant tropical wind percolating magically, weaved webs of reason and discovery. I fainted, awaking in the arms of a Mister Christopher Bambu. It was his mud that was rubbed all over my naked body basked in moonlight. Insisting, it was he who brought the mud from Palenque. Was it he too that lead my mother through the jungle 32 years ago, pregnant with Felix carrying shrooms submerged in honey? If so, the world would then become just perfect enough for me to dream forever. Consuming myself with Borges and myths, the want of ominous staricases looming closely (I saw one tonight. She was beautiful and statuesque). I interpolated my own questions, intruding on his mastery. Hoping to find somthing burried in the margin. Wonder. Manuel says to me as I'm leaving the beach touched and red, "tomorrow, you must wear cream so you don't loose your skin." I reply, "And where would the world be without my skin?" If you are to search the walls of Labyrinths in a state synonymous with reading tea leaves, might as well not read him at all. Goodnight Dear Sir.