Is it the man, the post revolutionary culture, the food shortages. Perhaps it is boredom, prehaps it is love. It has taken me 55,ooo words to tell the tale, yet the tale is yet to be told. I will wash my clothes by hand (goodbye nails, hello Omo) and sweep my floor with a broom. Hardship and romance. From one imperfect culture to another and experiences unknown. Food shortages and hurricane damage await me where money cannot buy that which doesn't exist, where freedom is redefined, where heat saps and listening ears betray dissent. Once more into the crushing embrace of the great Orc and the wide blue sky of the Carribean.
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