The bag laden droves are gone, only saxophone wine, busking for one. Macy’s window displays a manger, beside a twinkling yule tree. Among brightly wrapped presents below, sleeps a hobo.
Over the next three days we witnessed the bloating of Fuego in front of Mali’s guest house, and on occasion inhaled the horrýd odor. Fuego had to be killed to get his name.
Eıghty year old sat next to me on a 10 hour helta-skelta, swıtchback, death rattle across the mountaıns - he had one eye, one tooth, one leg, crutches and a bag of pılls ın a transparent plastıc