petit mignon: It's 12:42

AM and I'm procrastinating. Unhooking earrings, combing hair, leaning into a cold sink, and banal libations for the face and red-encrusted mouth--too much.

The wedding cake was so sweet my teeth wanted to fall off (occasionally, excess flecks of powder on the cheeks of the Texan society ladies threaten to have similarly suicidal tendencies), but it wasn't yet time for their retirement + pink mansioned pension. The plane will leave tomorrow, silver and early, whether I am napping on its grey foam pillows or not. The George Bush International Airport has a Popeye's Fried Chicken depot.

In my sister-in-law's SUV, massive and bright en route to the dawn, perhaps we'll gossip through the drowse about the new bride into our family and how happy our brother will find the flamingos in lower California.

I should have been under blankets hours ago. There is no hot water. Tomorrow, are you already here?

Adieu, first landing place after the invisible embrace of the Motherland! I wander back to the land of the lotus-eaters again in too few hours. It's been nice walking under your dense, assured trees and air-conditioned ceilings. I won't forget the good times we had in the sweet bakery scent of your supermarkets.