Sixty two minutes until midnight in Malaga. Creatures discussing their days in the trees. Questioning owls eyeing the ground walkers. A city, from the top of this mountain, appears to be sleeping waiting for the sun to blaze again in the a.m.
And I sit with a bottle of Dewars, a bowl of ice to feed into my drink, listening to Bukowski read stories from his pages on the radio.
Begging me to question; is it worth the trip home? To continue doing the maddening career I've socumed to after failing my other attempts at careers; one being teaching the other journalism? To keep questioning how in the good hell the people running my country of origin are still in charge, based solely on the way they have made my home land the laughing stock of the entire third rock from the sun?
Or should I have a restart, a new beginning , a do-over in this huge rented casa two-hours away from the Rock of Gibraltar, doing whatever the hell it is I've been doing this last week while watching sunsets and sunrises from the top of the world?
