A boy rides by on a scooter. He is moving fast across the tiled floor.

Friends smoke cigarettes and converse as they sit on the bookstore chairs a few feet from me.

The dry stout hits all the right spots.

A man carries a black, plastic crate filled with oranges on his handlebars, as he pedals his way through Pasaje Rodriguez, Tijuana, Baja California Norte, Mexico.

Across the way, less than twenty feet from me, he and she rehearse an upcoming street theater production, a play of sorts.

A greying-haired man opens the metal door-gate on his gallery. He is a painter.

She walks by with a cart of fresh, hot burritos. Her sign says so.

independent writer

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