To Paulino

Today, Paulino, I become Seneca. And I speak to you from London, the seat of my empire. And Paulino, your name here sounds Roman. It opens like seconds, in a cobblestone street, in Notting Hill, where horses recently flung and men and women did not shower. And only centuries later, I live in a series of concerning delays: the fragility of present. And the expectation, almost certain of future.

In three decades, one only, was lived in adulthood. And I lived in delays. In delays of self. Never clear. Barely honest. Barely capable to stand, own, as I am. 

This insight is water deep. Need to pause.  Paulino, I am sorry, indeed. Be right back.