When I came here, I was fully intent on writing the great American novel in all my spare time.
It would be easy.
The words would flow, sweet and expertly combined, like a perfect martini, and when I was finished they would parade me through the city while children laughed and ran along side, and old women prayed and waved rosaries.
But it didn't end up that way.
Even my back up plan of just getting completely drunk every night and passing out on top of my rented sheets didn't quite pan out.
So now here it was, my last night, and I finally got it together to sit down and write.
Maybe it was the sunset.
Four days of gray smog and haze.
Four days that shrugged off into darkness like they were too embarrassed to say good night.
But not tonight.
The sun shed its sickly yellow coat just in time to go down, and filled the sky with glowing orange, a whole horizon on fire, like a still photograph of a huge explosion, bellowing pink and yellow smoke.
I took a dozen pictures, but then deleted most of them, because I knew I could not have it, only pass through it.
Being in that moment, at that moment.
An absent minded tear falling in slow motion.
I went down stairs a stood in front of the hotel bar.
Inside a silent couple sat staring past each other, and a tired business man held down the bar, frowning into his cell phone.
I couldn't help them.
I came back to my room and ordered room service, and decided to write the saddest song ever written.
Outside it was dark, and the horizon twinkled like a fallen Christmas tree.
Sirens wailed in the distance as I sat down at the keyboard.
But this was all I could come up with.
Good night Tijuana, and thanks for the sunset.
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