| The mist is seeping off the ocean coast
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| | potholes, like in Minnesota to worry
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| in Lima-seeping I say, seeping up and
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| | about, or eleven inches of snow
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| into Milaflores Park, by the café: El
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| | overnight, just an ocean a few blocks
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| Parquetito this sunny, Tuesday afternoon,
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| | away, and sunny days.
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| where I am having my coffee and coke,
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| | The park is green, the fog has reached it
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| sitting back absorbing the moment,
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| | now, it is also reaching me, in El
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| writing this down for you. Other than
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| | Parquetito, but it will fade with the
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| that, doing nothing, nothing, I say,
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| | heat of the day, it always does. Romina
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| nothing at all.
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| | is serving us today (she is young and
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| Somewhere in the background the nation's
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| | happy, always smiling, goes to school in
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| song is being played, and what really is
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| | the evenings); Rosa will have Cebiche,
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| going through my mind on this sunny day
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| | for me, Lasagna.
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| is: who will ever remember this one
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| | I like the watching, listening, smells of
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| simple day.
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| | the surrounding actions and motions of
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| My wife is reading the book: "Last Autumn
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| | the café, I feel like I am underwater,
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| and Winter," poems out of Minnesota, and
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| | watching everything, like an invisible
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| all around her the world seems busy, hot,
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| | alien. Ah! but who will remember a simple
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| sounds with entities of life. No
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| | day like this, if I don't write about it?
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