I’m walking along down the street, passing a music store with a Jamaican themed paint job. According to the sign they do passport photos also, along with several other musically unconnected services.

I pass by an irregularly shaped parking lot with some ropes strung across it and then a taco wagon. There is a row of fellows sitting on a low wall in front of the wagon, they are either engaged in conversation, or when it gets to hot a pall of stupor descends on them.

I get to a round about with its traffic cop standing in the middle under the digital sign that more often than not has the wrong time flashing on it. As I am walking I notice spaces between the buildings. These are often strewn with garbage and various items.

On a hot, humid afternoon I am prone to imaging myself turning down into one of these murky areas and entering a rift in time and space. Who knows where I would alight, in the lush pre Mayan rainforest. The hellish time of pestilence spreading conquistadors.

The options are endless. This is why I read.