No dreaming for you my friend!

My house mate tonight confirmed, in no uncertain terms, that he is one with the life on the street, as he lay sprawled and shivering on the bathroom floor, pathetically covered in a Hilton-gifted blanket (I could do no more) and muttering weakly about the ex-combatant from Bogotá who had finished him with multiple beers and shots of aguardiente in rapid succession.

Those ex-combatants just always seem to have enough nightmares to keep them trapped in sobriety...and how they wish you could join them in that place of woken horrors; or maybe that they could join you in some dream world, in which there still survives some fragments of the life they must have known before they started carrying the ever-inflamed and guilt-oozing existential scab of all this violence, borne to them on the putrefying remains and fearsomely clear piles of flesh, which only the damp earth and brown rivers seem to eventually forget. Either way, drinking with them is a 'shot for shot' exercise, if you will excuse the pun.

I promised not to upload the actual photos so in an ironic twist here is Sergio looking like a Colombian terrorist...fetching indeed!

Maybe, and somewhat ironically, my friend would now appear to be dying a twisted and darkly comedic version of the kind of death that this man must have confronted on so many previous occasions...always with those searching, but ultimately soulless eyes. For both of them salvation seems so far away now, but only one wakes up with the ever-present kind of pain that only death could possibly sooth...