The sun rises over the dark desert. A single beam races across the sand like a torpedo, heading straight for José’s house. It sneaks in through a gap in the blinds and pokes him in the eye. He groans and sits up in his chair, rubs his face, straightens his greasy mustache. His blurry eyes focus on the kitchen table covered in cigarette butts and other people’s poetry. What is he still looking for in these worn out books with their cracked spines and dead authors? A cure for his pain? A reason to return to life? He doesn’t know anymore, doesn’t care. He wipes his drool off the pages and picks up where he left off.