it was the night of the elliot smith concert. while i drew this at the coffee shop, the couple beside me had an intense conversation about the state of affairs in Latin America. the turmoil, our rich heritage, things i know little about. things i must not be privy to because even though i'm hispanic i don't wear sandals...
he wore sandals. he was in tune with our culture. it gave him something to strive for, something to learn, something to give his life to. she felt neglected. she finally told him so. she finally told him that night as she softly cried.
he silently sat there listening afraid that others were too. she finally gave up and left. he just sat there stunned, without any answers. i went to sit out on the patio. when he finally left, i'd already begun to smoke. i wrote this while he silently crossed the busy night street to walk home alone.