I admire people who can write fiction. For me fiction can only be an element of truth, a magnifying glass or a loudspeaker.

There is something about the sound of a soft rain on a tin roof. Its almost wind-like in its ebb and flow, as if someone were trying to tune into specific radio station and going through all the frequencies. Now that were sliding into our only other season, its hard to tell the time, especially when you can no longer use the sun as a clock. The sun becomes a sneaky child, hiding from and peaking at you unexpectedly through out the day. You can no longer count on him, hes free to do whatever he wants behind the clouds. The clouds are now your new sun, and watch you suspiciously from morning to night. The moon and stars have also punched out, replaced by a red and neverending piece of mis-placed dawn. The birds and wildlife are quite pleased with this arrangement as are all living things. The orchids and bromeliads finally relaxing and drawing water in humid breathes. This is the time of the year where I feel im on an island. Ive always played this game, even as a child. Pretending that just behind the horizon was a rocky cliff facing the ocean. The change in my mind and body was almost narcotic when I would do this. Very hard to stop this self-administered dose of joy. One minute everything is damp and grey and cold, and in one quick second the sun blasts through everything and every drop of water becomes crystaline and beautiful, everything green shades of emerald. The birds racing through the sky from tree to tree in lunatic extacy. Its like a sudden un-predictable rush hour, several times a day. And then suddenly your in New Zealand or Hawaii and not landlocked between two mountain ranges almost exactly in the middle, in the emerald heart of Colombia.

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