I’ve been out late at night, staring at the mango tree, smoking and reading…

“I’m astounded whenever I finish something. Astounded and distressed. My perfectionist instinct should inhibit me from finishing: it should inhibit me from even beginning. But I get distracted and start doing something. What I achieve is not the product of an act of my will but of my will’s surrender. I begin because I don’t have the strength to think; I finish because I don’t have the courage to quit. This book is my cowardice.”
Fernando Pessoa

I ponder the albatross and the frigatebird. I know them from my youth. Which one am I? Neither. I am the ‘A’o, the shearwater who secrets himself in the forest. When I leave I am confused by the lights of the city and plummet to the ground, never reaching the sea.

I get up and place my cigar in the ashtray. The city calls to me. It sounds like a transaction left unfulfilled. Dare I take action? Pointless silence is answer enough. I get up and walk inside. Behind me the mango tree rustles in the tradewind. Rain is coming.

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