A purposefully dilapidated Mexican restaurant, subdued puke tenors emptied from a Bottle of Bacardi 151, a disheveled broken-hearted Mexican restaurant in a weary city: These are the remains of an iconoclastic season... Hot summer waltzes with simplicity and love that swayed four boy's lives. The ruin of relationships fought for and lost stink the countryside But a diffident, different perfume sullies the air... Empirically memory is empiricism, Nietzsche's snake coils itself and memory's nudity divulges a placard: It just is. My search for why ends in recollection (Not because I'm satisfied but because empirically there is nothing more) . What happened to the enduring lethargy of summer past...? - A semblance of noble laziness that now seems ransacked by college and time... Like women, alcohol, city... simplicity dissipates into nothing beyond memory And I'm left in a familiar dilapidated Mexican restaurant holding nothing beyond a menu and a fading past... But somehow nostalgia spills meaning upon my drama. Somehow life in rewind seems intimately right... And as a familiar Latina waitress requests an answer I order the same nauseating insanity as last summer. Her recollecting smile scares the fuck out of me.