I found a twenty-five year old storage bag. Filled with old photos and old letters. I went through them, one by one. Each photo showed me a stranger, who lived and now he was myth and tale. I found some letters from my Italian beauty Marcella.
So sad, I forgot her name and her face. 27 years ago, she was my muse, my wish in Monterey. We had California, we had free days and we didn’t want to own anything.
“I remember you my beautiful Marcella,
I remember my barefoot honey who love to dance with the Pacific,
who love to drink the tequila and loved to be kissed my California sun.
I showed her Big Sur, the River Inn.
I remembered she lay nude by the Pfiefer beach and she asked me.
Johnnie, is the soldier life, the life for the poet?
Please find something to do, you…
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