Maybe a door opened or I turned, but when I smelled cedar, I was in Cuba.  Cedar has always been Cuba…if always means a decade. Maybe that’s always. Maybe that’s enough.

And it’s a factory, not just any corner of that drenched and potent island. It’s the factory for Romeo y Julietta. And that’s a factory the way windmill is a solar field.

Everything was wood. Stairs creaked. Splinters

So equisiteky desolate, like an artist spent generations undoing the island so everything was “just so”.