The strongest drink I ever had to swallow was poured by the powers that be. And advertised as: pure, distilled perspective - fermented fruit of the Knowledge Tree. He said, "Mira, Mira, amigo! This town's streets are paved with dead mens' stone. Mira, mira," and they pointed to the ground, "these streets are covered with clay people made six-hundred years ago. And they've been broken for so long no one remembers what they're for, our memories are short, especially yours. Do you remember my name? I'm here to see you again."

The day I let it go was the day I drank with death in Mexico.

The drink I drunk, the think I thunk, and the trees of trunk agree that the tumble-weeds are following me and this is what they're saying. They say, "mira, mira, amigo! This town's streets are paved with dead mens' stone. Mira, mira," and they pointed to the sound, "you can hear the wind coming around and as long as you roll along without digging your heels in or reaching for the rails you can't do what death entails without nothin' to hold onto. Do you remember my name? I'm here to see you again."

"Pobre, pobre, joven. I am death in the shape of a man. Let's drink to the end of all ends and we'll never take life for granted again."