Lolina.

The days pass too quickly and still we are wasting our lives in the cafe of green and yellow paper. These chairs of antique leather mold around us like chains and something in our being stirs with discomfort.

"Can't you see?" screams the voice of inner monologue; the omniscient voice of dreams, "You are allowing yourself to be trapped! Soon you will be nothing but the smell of coffee and cigarettes and the babble of Spanish chatter!"

But the voice is far off and distant, competing with the draw of necessity and acquaintance. The voice screams clear from across a field of drying grasses and a sun baked river. The voice is fading into the fruits of orchard trees and lost in the sweet bite of nectar.

Once again, the days turn and we are heavy in curls of smoke and becoming our own reflection in this cafe full of mirrors.