Fiveo1

Alexandria, Then Everywhere Else

The flight from Sri Lanka to Egypt carried me across the Arabian Sea, over the edge of Oman, and down the spine of the Red Sea. A few days layover in Dubai broke the journey — glass towers and air conditioning so cold it felt like winter in July. Then the second leg. Then Alexandria.

I did not know what to expect from Egypt. The little I knew came from movies and the Bible. Moses parting the sea. Cleopatra's asp. The opening scene of Lawrence of Arabia. That was the extent of my education. Thirty-eight years old, thirty countries behind me, and I was still learning geography from Hollywood.

The plane descended through a haze of dust and sea salt. The Mediterranean spread out to the north, gray-blue and ancient. Below it, Alexandria: a sprawl of white buildings, minarets, and crumbling colonial facades. Two thousand years of history compressed into a city that looked like it had been bombed and rebuilt and bombed again.

After landing and getting cash from the ATM, I split a taxi with a young guy I met on the flight. He was heading the same way — into the city center, toward the port. We negotiated the fare in broken English and hand gestures. Egyptian pounds changed hands. The driver lit a cigarette and pulled into traffic.

The forty-five minute ride was a lesson in controlled chaos. Alexandria's streets operate on a logic that cannot be explained, only survived. Lanes are suggestions. Horns are punctuation. Pedestrians move like water around obstacles. Our driver wove between trucks and donkey carts and Mercedes sedans with the casual indifference of a man who had cheated death so many times he no longer feared it.

We were dropped off next to the port. The young man from the flight pointed toward a falafel stand. We ate quickly — fried balls of ground chickpeas wrapped in flatbread, tahini dripping down our fingers — and parted ways. I never learned his name. That is how travel works. Brief alliances. Shared meals. Then dissolution.

The hostel I booked was a simple multi-story building. More hotel than hostel, but at five dollars a night, I was not complaining. My room was very pink — walls, ceiling, even the sheets. A queen bed dominated the space. A small television sat on a rickety desk. The bathroom was across the hall, shared with whoever else happened to be staying on that floor. The window faced an alley where cats fought over fish bones and a man sold tea from a cart.

---

What I Actually Did

I went inside the Alexandria Library and looked around at all the old print machinery. Then I met a group of hoodlums outside, took a few pictures, and headed to the mirror place. Went all over it, fucked around, and then ate two big ass shawarmas with lamb and lots of salsa from a street stand for almost nothing.

Then I took a train to Cairo, where I stayed in a hostel with an elevator that looked like it was about to fall. Met a hot short Chinese chick, explored the pyramids, climbed to the top, saw the Sphinx. Then hit the Mount Sinai peninsula — didn't meet God. Fucked a few people. Had a good time.

Went to Israel, crossed at Eilat, slept in a construction building in Jerusalem because it was expensive as fuck. Went to Tel Aviv for a week. Flew to Budapest — best city life, fuck. Bulgaria, Romania, Turkey. Robbed a few people in Turkey. Crossed to Greece. Montenegro, Mostar (fuck), Slovenia, Croatia, Slovenia again, Italy, France, Spain, Portugal, Morocco. Casablanca — got robbed for $5k worth of a shitload of currency.

---

The Deeper Part (Alexandria)

Alexandria is not Cairo. Cairo is chaos compressed into a scream. Alexandria is chaos diffused across water. The Mediterranean softens everything. The sea breeze carries salt and the memory of empires. This was the city of Alexander the Great, founded in 331 BCE. The city of Cleopatra. The city of the Library — the greatest repository of knowledge in the ancient world. The Library is gone now. Burned. Destroyed. What remains is fragments. That is Alexandria's lesson: everything ends. But some things leave marks.

Over the next few days, I explored the massive fort called the Citadel of Qaitbay. It sits on the eastern point of Pharos Island, on the very site where the Lighthouse of Alexandria once stood. That lighthouse — the Pharos — was one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World. It stood for over 1,500 years, guiding ships into the harbor with a fire at its peak and a mirror that could supposedly reflect sunlight a hundred miles. Earthquakes destroyed it. What remained was scavenged for building materials. Now the Citadel stands in its place, built from some of the same stones.

The Citadel is an adventurous site to behold. Massive carved stone blocks rise from the foundation like a fortress dreamed by a giant. The walls are thick enough to stop cannon fire — which was the point. Qaitbay built it in the 15th century to defend against the Ottoman Empire. The Ottomans never took it. The British bombed it in 1882. It still stands. That is the second lesson of Alexandria: survive long enough, and everything becomes a monument to survival.

The view from the top displays the coast of Alexandria as if it were a pastel painting. The yellow of the massive fort contrasts against the blues of the Mediterranean Sea. The coastline below spreads out in a ribbon of colorful cars and buildings — white and blue and faded ochre. Fishing boats putter along the harbor. Cargo ships sit anchored off the coast, waiting for clearance. Far to the east, the modern library of Alexandria glints in the sun, a disc of granite and steel built to replace what was lost.

Inside the Citadel, a group of school kids on a field trip scurried up and down the narrow passages. They moved from the dungeon — dark, damp, smelling of old stone — to the lookout towers complete with huge cannons. The children laughed and shouted, indifferent to the history beneath their feet. One boy stopped and stared at me. A foreigner. A curiosity. I stared back. He grinned. I grinned. He ran off to join his friends. That is the third lesson of Alexandria: children are the same everywhere. History is just a backdrop to their games.

The fort is cleaned daily by the sea mist that beats against the rock below. Salt erodes the stone grain by grain. The walls are softer than they should be. Run your hand across them and you feel centuries of wind and water. A historic statement of strength, the Citadel of Qaitbay is also a statement of impermanence. Every fortress falls. Every empire ends. But the stones remember.

---

The Chain

The Lighthouse of Alexandria guided ships for 1,500 years. It was a tower of stone and fire built to say: you are not alone out there. Someone built this so you could find your way home. Then it fell. The stones were reused. The memory faded. But the idea of a lighthouse — the idea of building something to help strangers find their way — that did not fade. That became every lighthouse that came after. That became every act of kindness from one traveler to another. That became the falafel stand where I ate with a stranger whose name I never learned.

The Library of Alexandria held the sum total of human knowledge. It burned. But the idea of a library — a place where knowledge is preserved and shared — that did not burn. That became every library in every town. That became Wikipedia. That became the stack of books on your nightstand. That became the words you are reading right now.

The Citadel of Qaitbay was built to defend against invasion. It failed. The British bombed it. The sea erodes it. But the idea of defense — of building walls to protect what matters — that did not fail. That became every door you lock. Every hand you hold. Every choice you make to keep something safe.

I did not know what to expect from Egypt. I expected monuments and mummies and tourist traps. I found something else. I found a city that has been destroyed and rebuilt and destroyed again, and still refuses to die. I found a culture that measures time in millennia while selling tea from carts on street corners. I found a people who have seen empires rise and fall and rise again, and who still wave at strangers.

Egypt is not the Bible. It is not the movies. It is a place where the past is not buried. It is just there, in the stones, in the sea mist, in the eyes of children who stare at foreigners and then run off to play.

I left Egypt on a plane to somewhere else. Turkey, maybe. Or Jordan. I do not remember. The countries blur after a while. But I remember Alexandria. I remember the pink room. I remember the falafel. I remember the fort rising from the water like a question carved in stone: what do you build that will last?

The answer: nothing. Everything crumbles. Every lighthouse falls. Every library burns. Every fortress erodes.

But the act of building — the act of creating something for someone you will never meet — that lasts. That is the only immortality we get.

Alexander the Great founded this city in 331 BCE. He died four years later at age thirty-two. He never saw Alexandria at its peak. He never saw the Lighthouse or the Library. He just drew a line in the sand and said, build here. That was enough.

I am not Alexander. I am a man who stole a car and spent five years in a Colombian prison. I am a man who will miss his daughter's wedding. I am a man with no permanent address and no stable income and no future that looks like what most people call a life.

But I have been to Alexandria. I have stood where the Lighthouse stood. I have watched the sun set over the Mediterranean from a fort built on ancient stones. I have eaten falafel with a stranger and slept in a pink room for five dollars a night.

That is not nothing.

That is the whole point.

We build lighthouses because someone out there needs to find their way home. We write stories because someone out there needs to know they are not alone. We travel because someone out there built something worth seeing.

Alexandria is still there. The fort still stands. The sea still beats against the rock. And you — wherever you are, whatever you are doing — you are connected to that place. Because someone built it. Someone preserved it. Someone wrote about it. And now you are reading about it.

That is the chain. That is the connection.

Egypt to you. Alexandria to wherever you are sitting.

The stones remember. And now you do too.

<p>My relationship with God is great. I talk to him all day everyday. It doesnt bother me one bit if no one knows my thoughts or life. Its mine and Ive enjoyed a relationship with him for as long as Ive lived and understood. Hes been my best friend always. Thats the truth as small as it is. Thats my truth. I do everything else wrong as see by the world but out of it all at least I get to walk and talk with God if no one else.</p>

<p>I was just getting out of my second divorce. Closing escrow for the second time in three months. We had just bought our first house three months after getting married, and now I was selling it to finalize our divorce.</p>

<p>My awesome daughter — my Sunshine — was just about to head off for college.</p>

<p>I decided there was no better time than now to explore this world. So I bought my one-way ticket to Thailand for $250 and gave my company three months' notice. I downsized my life to fit into a 38-liter Osprey backpack.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Thailand is one of the best countries for a solo traveler to start their journey. As massive and busy as Bangkok is, English is spoken almost everywhere. Once you brave the world through a chatty tuk-tuk driver as you whip down side streets, sidewalks, and oncoming traffic, you'll know you've arrived at your destination by the grace of God.</p>

<p>My first hostel experience of many was just around the corner from the forever party of Khao San Road, with its blasting bombardment of competing music from one bar scene to the next.</p>

<p>I had two things to conquer while I was there: the abandoned mall and the ghost towers.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The abandoned mall had been on my bucket list for a while. During the last few months of my marketing career, I logged many hours of research — Googling abandoned and adventurous structures to explore along my way. Things I could do for the most I had.</p>

<p>I left California with about $10,000 in my pocket. Every dime I had. I had a few clients I was going to maintain remotely to subsidize my dwindling retirement. At thirty-eight, I was determined to escape the rat race, and this was my start. With just a laptop and a phone, I was able to maintain a continuous presence while usually sitting on a beach somewhere drinking a beer with exotic company — usually in a tiny bikini.</p>

<p>The rat race isn't for everyone.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Hostels are the easiest way for solo travelers to connect with other adventurers. After my first day, I had recruited two beautiful conspirators willing to explore the unseen Bangkok with me and look for the abandoned mall and ghost towers.</p>

<p>My two new adventurers: one, a tall, slender blonde from the UK somewhere. The other, a hottie from Singapore. A high-energy adventurer with a perfect ass. Between the both of them, I was all smiles as we headed on our way in search of the hidden gems.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The story of the abandoned mall in Thailand goes like this.</p>

<p>For some reason or other, the mall was closed permanently. Over the years of neglect, the roof collapsed, but nothing changed for the vendors that line the streets surrounding the massive structure. Over time and due to continual rain, the entire basement flooded.</p>

<p>As the newly developed lake grew deeper and deeper, swarms of mosquitoes also developed. They were so overwhelming to the local vendors that someone introduced koi and other local fish into the newly developed ecosystem to control the infestation. Over the years, the fish multiplied into thousands upon thousands in a building basement the size of a stadium.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The mall is hidden in plain sight, two streets down from Khao San Road. Vendors surround the mall as if it's not there.</p>

<p>We went along the side of the mall to a carport that we ducked into, out of sight from wandering eyes. Along the left of the carport is a walkway we followed around to where it dead-ends. We rounded a tall tree growing at the end. About ten feet high, there is a three-foot by three-foot hole in the wall.</p>

<p>I went through first. Then I pulled my two eager new friends through.</p>

<p>We came through into an elevator shaft about two stories high. Once we crossed the elevator doorway into the stairway, we entered an apocalyptic scene. A thin layer of mud and silt covered everything. Moss and grass covered most of the mall's floor space. Escalators spanned open spaces from one story to the next. Covered with debris and grass, we cautiously climbed from one floor to the next.</p>

<p>At either end of the vacant mall is a thirty-foot by thirty-foot wide hole where you can see either the clear blue sky if you look up — or down into the massive lake that is alive with life.</p>

<p>Slipping and sliding along, hand in hand, we dragged each other from one creepy shop space to the next. At one end, we were able to go down flights of stairs into the basement. There is a rickety, rotting walkway someone had previously made to walk over the lake filled with fish.</p>

<p>It was a simple journey that lasted no more than an hour. But we were among the few that had seen the hidden ecosystem of this once-massive mall.</p>

<p>The abandoned mall was an eerie adventure of nature overtaking civilization.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Ghost Towers. Sathorn Tower is an unfinished skyscraper in the Thai capital city of Bangkok.</p>

<p>After a fifteen-minute boat ride down the massive river cutting through Bangkok, we disembarked into the heart of the city. About three hundred feet from the river stands a massive forty-nine-story skyscraper that was never finished. Its complete concrete construction is void of glass and steel. This massive behemoth has been forgotten and turned over to nature. Completely absent of anything other than concrete forms.</p>

<p>We sneaked through the chain-link fence that cuts the building off from society. After a few short minutes of flirtatious batting of eyes and flattery, the already drunk and clearly underpaid security guard was graciously holding the rickety ladder as my beautiful friends climbed up to the second story, where we started our adventure.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The tower loomed above us. Forty-nine stories of concrete and rebar. No windows. No walls. Just the skeleton of a dream that died before it could be born.</p>

<p>We climbed. Floor after floor. The city sprawled below us, indifferent to our presence. The wind whipped through the open floors, and the metal rebar sang in the breeze. My Singaporean companion gripped my arm a little tighter on the narrow stairwells. The blonde from the UK laughed nervously with every gust.</p>

<p>At the top — or as close to the top as we could get — we stood at the edge and looked out over Bangkok. The river snaked through the city like a silver ribbon. The temples glinted gold in the setting sun. The chaos of the streets below faded into a distant hum.</p>

<p>This is why I left. This is why I sold everything. This moment — standing on an abandoned skyscraper in Bangkok, two beautiful women beside me, the whole world spread out at my feet — this was freedom.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>We descended as the sun set. The security guard waved as we slipped back through the fence. We bought beers from a street vendor and drank them on the boat ride back to Khao San Road.</p>

<p>My companions laughed. I laughed. The city sparkled around us.</p>

<p>I had thirty countries ahead of me. I did not know that Colombia and a stolen Mercedes and a seven-year sentence were waiting. I did not know that I would write these words from a prison cell, looking back at that night with something between gratitude and grief.</p>

<p>But I knew one thing: I was alive.</p>

<p>Truly, fully, irrationally alive.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on September 18, 2022. I had been in prison for fourteen months. The abandoned mall and ghost towers of Bangkok felt like a different lifetime. Another person. Another Potter.</p>

<p>But I am still that person. The one who climbs through holes in walls. The one who bribes drunk security guards. The one who stands at the edge of unfinished skyscrapers and feels the wind and calls it freedom.</p>

<p>Prison cannot take that from me.</p>

<p>Nothing can.</p>

<p>I spoke to my daughter today. Sunshine. The call bounced off another phone hotspot. WhatsApp is the best way to talk while I travel. She told me she's getting married in a week. I just learned that she was engaged last month. It has been a year and two months since I was sentenced to seven years in a Colombian prison.</p>

<p>I remember her birth. Nineteen years old. Broke. Working insane hours as a dock worker. Ten to twelve hours on. Eight hours off. Day and night. An hour commute each way. Seven days a week. A walking zombie. I remember the first time she rolled over on her own. Looked up at me with those piercing blue eyes. Waved her arms in a silent gesture to be held. I was sunk from that moment on. My daughter. My world.</p>

<p>But that was then. My daughter and I have a strained relationship. She has chosen not to speak with me anymore. I respect that completely. She is an admirable adult. Intelligent. Capable of making decisions in her life that are unassociated with me. That is her right. I try to call once a week anyway. Sometimes she answers. Sometimes she doesn't. Today she did.</p>

<p>She told me about the wedding over WhatsApp. The call cut out twice. The hotspot bounced. Her voice crackled through the speakers of a smuggled phone that the police failed to find during the last raid. "Dad," she said. "I'm getting married next week." I said it was wonderful because it is. Her life moves forward. It should. I made my choices. She makes hers.</p>

<p>I have made many bad decisions in my life. The car. The locks. The borders crossed without papers. The fights I should have walked away from. But the decision that hurts the most is not being there for her. Not because I chose to abandon her. Because I chose a path that led me here. To this cell. To this hammock. To this phone call that should have been a hug.</p>

<p>She asked when I would get out. I told her I didn't know. The sentence was seven years. But with good behavior? With appeals? With the chaotic, unpredictable machine that is the Colombian justice system? I didn't know. She said, "Okay, Dad. I love you." I said I loved her too. The call dropped.</p>

<p>I lay in my hammock for a long time after that. The cell was loud — it was always loud — but I didn't hear any of it. I heard her voice. I heard her say "Dad." I heard her say "I love you." And I heard myself say nothing about walking her down the aisle. Her wedding will come and go without me. That is the consequence of my choices. Not hers. Mine.</p>

<p>She is still my daughter. I am still her father. That does not change. But the relationship — the day-to-day, the phone calls, the presence — that is her choice now. I honor it.</p>

<p>I wrote this on a smuggled phone in Envigado. I had been there fourteen months. Seven years sentenced. No idea when I would get out. I did not know that I would be released on March 18, 2026. I did not know that I would walk out of Bella Vista and across Venezuela and into Nicaragua. I did not know that I would still be writing these words, still carrying this weight, still missing her wedding from the other side of the world. That is the truth. I do not ask for sympathy. I only state the fact. Choices were made. Consequences followed. Life continues.</p>

<p>The Madman's Life</p>

<p>October 22, 2022</p>

<p>I stole a pair of shoes once. Actually, a few times. As I walked the Camino de Santiago.</p>

<p>I can't say I felt any remorse. Because I didn't.</p>

<p>It was a necessity at the time.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I had walked thousands of miles over the years, from country to country. The little I had left had dwindled. Not having soles on the bottom of my feet was a luxury I had grown to like — and was unwilling to give up.</p>

<p>I had burned through a few pairs alone as I walked the 900 kilometers of the Camino de Santiago.</p>

<p>Climbing out of bed one morning, looking around the two-hundred-bed dormitory, then down at my worn-out shoes — the soles on the bottom flapping as I folded them back with my hands — I thought of repairing them with the duct tape I carried with me. But that had dwindled down to nothing, also.</p>

<p>A simple thought. And it was decided.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I had already pondered it the night before as I passed the massive shelf downstairs, loaded with other pilgrims' shoes against the church window.</p>

<p>Churches and parishes have housed the roughly one hundred thousand-plus pilgrims each year that walk the Camino de Santiago. The relatively inexpensive cost to the pilgrims — a few dollars each night — generates massive revenue for the country. Some of the towns along the way exist and have flourished solely due to the financial influence and popularity of the Camino de Santiago.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Packing up my things back into my 38-liter Osprey backpack. Slipping my socks on. Silently heading downstairs.</p>

<p>Walking up to the rack loaded with travelers' shoes, I quickly tried on a few pairs before finding a pair big enough for my loppy feet.</p>

<p>I finished lacing them up. Stood up. Stepped out the doors.</p>

<p>One foot in front of the other.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I had left quite early — an hour or so before the sun was to rise. The town I had entered the evening before was high in the hills, surrounded by massive pines. A beautiful and refreshing start to my day.</p>

<p>As I left in pitch black down the dark dirt path that led me to my next destination, I was grateful for the air in my lungs. The breathtaking scenery around me. And the soft new soles on my feet.</p>

<p>I thanked God for the life I'd been given. Allowed to live.</p>

<p>Camino de Madman.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I am not ashamed of the man I've become. I've accomplished more in my first forty years on this great earth than most have in a lifetime.</p>

<p>And I'm just getting started.</p>

<p>With thirty countries down out of the 180+ that make up this crazy ass world we all live in, I have so much more to explore.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>As I sit in a Colombian prison — a year and a half in on my seven-year sentence — I ponder my life decisions.</p>

<p>And then I ponder them some more.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The Camino de Santiago — the Way of St. James — is a network of pilgrimages leading to the shrine of the apostle St. James the Great in the Cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in Galicia, northwestern Spain. For over a thousand years, people have walked this path. For religious reasons. For spiritual reasons. For reasons they cannot explain.</p>

<p>I walked it for the same reason I stole the car. The same reason I picked the locks. The same reason I crossed borders without papers.</p>

<p>Because the path was there. Because my feet needed to move. Because sitting still has never been my gift.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The shoes I stole probably belonged to a German tourist. Or a Korean. Or a Brazilian. I don't know. I didn't look at the names. I didn't want to know.</p>

<p>I told myself they would buy new ones. That my need was greater. That the Camino provides.</p>

<p>The Camino did provide. It provided me with soles that weren't flapping. With kilometers that didn't hurt. With a path forward when I had nothing else.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I am not a good person. I have never claimed to be.</p>

<p>But I am a person who walks. Who moves. Who refuses to stay in one place for too long — even when that place is a prison cell.</p>

<p>In Envigado, I walked in circles. Around the yard. Around the cell. Around my own thoughts.</p>

<p>It is not the same as the Camino. But it is still movement. Still forward. Still one foot in front of the other.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on October 22, 2022. I had been in prison for fifteen months. I had thirty months left at the police station before transfer to Bella Vista. I had no idea when I would walk the Camino again.</p>

<p>But I knew I would.</p>

<p>The path is still there. The churches are still open. The pilgrims are still walking.</p>

<p>And somewhere in Spain, there is a rack of donated shoes waiting for the next person who needs them.</p>

<p>I am not that person anymore. I have soles on my feet now — ones I paid for, ones I earned.</p>

<p>But I remember the feeling of stealing those shoes. The guilt that wasn't guilt. The necessity that felt like grace.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Camino de Madman.</p>

<p>The way of the madman.</p>

<p>Maybe that is the only path worth walking.</p>

<p>This life is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons — living or dead — is coincidental.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The seasons change in front of me. Through the bars. The black steel bars I live behind.</p>

<p>My home.</p>

<p>My home — and theirs. The home of others. Coming and going. My sentence: seven years. Theirs: different.</p>

<p>The decision was made. A new Mercedes 63 AMG Coupe — my entrance fee. My share in a fifteen-foot by fifteen-foot concrete box.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>It is a constant here in Envigado, as we watch through the steel door. A door made of steel slats four fingers wide.</p>

<p>A breeze cools the concrete cell during the heat of the day.</p>

<p>Eighteen men. Eighteen angry, irrational souls. There is no change in their world behind bars. Just a constant.</p>

<p>Most young. Eighteen to thirty-five. A badge of honor, coming from the barrios of Colombia.</p>

<p>A daily ration of food comes through the bars. We clean. We live. A daily evolution of sadistic personalities. The future villains of the world.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Parque. Cards. Ajedrez. The daily education of passing time.</p>

<p>Hammock or mat on a slab of concrete — the place we sleep. The always-functioning society rarely stops to lay its head.</p>

<p>High above in my hammock, I lay.</p>

<p>The city below evolves and grows.</p>

<p>Evil lives in the cells of Envigado, waiting to get out. The time in between — a limbo of sanity.</p>

<p>Colombia. Envigado. Prison.</p>

<p>My Hilton. My timeshare. My vacation home.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The Madman</p>

<p>Engine # 7798060018089</p>

<p>Chassis # WOD2053871F445198</p>

<p>Plate # DOU317 Bogotá</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Golondrina.</p>

<p>Swallows.</p>

<p>I watch them from behind the bars. Small bodies cutting through the air. Unburdened. Unimprisoned. They come and go as they please. The seasons change, and they follow. Instinct. Freedom. Flight.</p>

<p>They do not know my name. They do not know I exist. They pass by the steel slats of my door and see nothing. A dark room. A shadow. A whisper of a man.</p>

<p>But I see them.</p>

<p>I see everything.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The swallows do not ask for permission. They do not file paperwork. They do not wait for a judge to sign a release. They simply fly.</p>

<p>North in spring. South in autumn. Across borders that mean nothing to them. Over walls that would stop a man but cannot stop a bird.</p>

<p>I have been both. The man behind the bars. The bird that flies away.</p>

<p>Right now, I am the man. But I remember being the bird.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on November 9, 2022. Cell #3. Envigado police station. Two years in. Five years to go — or so I thought. The release would come earlier. March 18, 2026. But that day was invisible to me then.</p>

<p>All I had was the steel door. The four-finger slats. The breeze that carried the smell of the city — exhaust, cooking food, sweat, life.</p>

<p>And the golondrinas.</p>

<p>Always the golondrinas.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>In Spanish, "golondrina" also means a migrating worker. Someone who moves from place to place, following the work, never settling. A different kind of prisoner. A different kind of freedom.</p>

<p>I have been that, too.</p>

<p>A traveler. A wanderer. A man with no fixed address and no fixed purpose. Moving from country to country, hostel to hostel, bus to bus.</p>

<p>Behind bars, I learned that freedom is not the opposite of imprisonment. Freedom is a state of mind.</p>

<p>The swallows are free. But they are also bound. Bound to the seasons. Bound to migration. Bound to the instinct that tells them where to go and when.</p>

<p>I am bound, too. Bound to my past. Bound to my choices. Bound to the concrete box that holds me.</p>

<p>But my mind — my mind flies.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Engine # 7798060018089.</p>

<p>Chassis # WOD2053871F445198.</p>

<p>I remember these numbers. The Mercedes that brought me here. The silver bullet that carried me through the broken glass and onto the roundabout and into the arms of the law.</p>

<p>I do not regret the car. I regret nothing.</p>

<p>But I remember the numbers. I will always remember the numbers.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>This life is a work of fiction.</p>

<p>That is what the disclaimer says. But the disclaimer is a lie. Or a truth. Or something in between.</p>

<p>These are my words. My memories. My cell. My bars. My golondrinas.</p>

<p>If they resemble someone else's life — that is not coincidence.</p>

<p>That is because prison is the same everywhere. Desperation is the same everywhere. The desire to fly — to be free — that is the same everywhere, too.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The seasons change.</p>

<p>The swallows return.</p>

<p>And I am still here.</p>

<p>Still watching. Still waiting. Still writing.</p>

<p>My Hilton. My timeshare. My vacation home.</p>

<p>My prison.</p>

<p>My life.</p>

<p>In my cell, there functions a society. A society developed in the barrios of Colombia.</p>

<p>We have a list on the bathroom wall that consists of the names of the men behind the walls. My name does not change. Others come and go, but mine stays the same. A list. A rotation.</p>

<p>This is a social dictatorship. An economy driven by drugs. Marijuana. Cocaine. Tusi. Shrooms. And some other shit I just fucked with. I tried shit. Period.</p>

<p>It is brought in — 100 grams of coke here, 250 grams of marijuana there, bags of others. A controlling party finances and funds the minions who wrap and package for sale and distribution.</p>

<p>Along the way, in our society of eighteen men, the product is cut. Lost. Stolen. Sold by the constituents within these walls.</p>

<p>The police already extracted their cut as the product passed from hand to hand. From freedom to oppression. From A to Z.</p>

<p>Inflation.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>So back to the list. The list of inmates who come and go. It fluctuates. Inmates — their transition unknown. Some short. Some long. Mine without measure.</p>

<p>A reality hidden from the world behind these bars. A fluctuation of fifteen to twenty-four men as the seasons change.</p>

<p>A society built with terror and fear.</p>

<p>Continually and ignorantly repeating the past. No hope for intellectual growth outside the tried and true pattern of narcotics. The revolving pattern of shit running downhill. The original pyramid scheme.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The names on the list define a moment in the order of things. A cog in the wheel. Those moments of simple labor had a value. A value that could be traded for a ball or a baggie.</p>

<p>The addictions serving as a natural call to arms. A labor force upon request.</p>

<p>Others hold securely to their ranks of slavery for the access it provides them. To have or not to have. In a society of nothing, the splitting of atoms. The remnants of dust.</p>

<p>Still others wait for their handout. The society developed on the entrance fee of a plume or a bump. The ruling society of ruthlessness driven by self-preservation of potential and imminent loss of respect.</p>

<p>A labor force up for bid to build your reputation. Your criminal empire.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>And me?</p>

<p>I did drugs in prison. Let me be clear about that. I am not a saint. I have never claimed to be.</p>

<p>Cocaine. Marijuana. Tusi. Shrooms. And some other shit I just fucked with. I tried shit. Period.</p>

<p>Not because I was addicted. Not because I needed an escape from the concrete box and the steel door and the eighteen angry men. Not for any reason that makes a good story.</p>

<p>I tried shit because I was there. Because it was available. Because I have always been curious about what happens when you press buttons you are not supposed to press.</p>

<p>The car. The locks. The borders. The drugs.</p>

<p>Same impulse. Same lack of fear. Same irrational intuition that has driven me my entire life.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I did not become an addict. That is not a brag. That is luck. Pure, dumb, unearned luck.</p>

<p>I watched men around me lose themselves to the drugs. Their souls draining out through their nostrils. Their personalities flattening into nothing. Their bodies becoming vehicles for nothing but the next hit, the next bump, the next plume.</p>

<p>That could have been me. It was not.</p>

<p>But I am not better than them. I am not stronger. I am just different. My curiosity is different. My demons are different. My escape hatches are different — I had a hammock, a notebook, a pen, and a story to write.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on November 9, 2022. I was in cell #3 at the Envigado police station. Twenty-four months stretched out before me like an ocean I could not see across.</p>

<p>The list on the bathroom wall grew longer. New names. New faces. New stories. Some stayed a week. Some stayed a month. Some — like me — stayed so long their names became permanent. Etched into the paint. Unerasable.</p>

<p>I learned the economy quickly. I participated in it. Not as a seller. Not as a distributor. As a consumer. A customer. A man who occasionally wanted to feel something other than the weight of his own choices.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The police knew. Of course they knew. They took their cut at the door. The drugs entered. The money exited. Everyone pretended otherwise.</p>

<p>In Colombia, that is how prison works. Not justice. Not rehabilitation. A business. And the inmates are inventory.</p>

<p>I was inventory. But I was also a customer.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Let me be honest in a way I have not been in other entries.</p>

<p>I did drugs in prison because I was bored. Because I was lonely. Because the days blurred together — each one identical to the last — and I needed something to mark the passage of time. A before and after. A line in the sand.</p>

<p>The drugs provided that. A bump of coke meant the next hour would be different from the last. A hit of weed meant the weight on my chest would lift — temporarily. A few shrooms meant the concrete walls would breathe, and the steel bars would dance, and I would remember that I was alive.</p>

<p>I tried tusi because someone handed it to me and said, "Try this." I tried it. I did not die. I did not ascend to a higher plane of consciousness. I just felt strange for a few hours and then felt normal again.</p>

<p>Some other shit? I don't even remember what it was called. Some powder. Some pill. Some thing that someone swore would change my life.</p>

<p>It did not change my life. It changed an afternoon. That was enough.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I am not proud of this. I am not ashamed of it either.</p>

<p>It is just what happened. Just what I did. Just another button pressed. Another door opened. Another experience filed away in the messy filing cabinet of my brain.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The list on the bathroom wall did not care about my drug use. It only cared about rotation. Who was in. Who was out. Who had paid their debt to society — or to the man who ran the cell.</p>

<p>My name never changed.</p>

<p>But every day, I watched others disappear. Transferred. Released. Sometimes dead.</p>

<p>The list updated. The economy continued. The drugs flowed. The cycle repeated.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>This is not a story with a moral. There is no lesson here that will save you.</p>

<p>This is just what I saw. What I did. What I tried.</p>

<p>Eighteen men. One cell. One toilet. One shower. No windows. No hope. A bathroom wall covered in names. And a lime green hammock where a gringo lay, high on god knows what, writing down his sins for strangers to read.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I did drugs in prison. Cocaine. Marijuana. Tusi. Shrooms. And some other shit I just fucked with.</p>

<p>I tried shit. Period.</p>

<p>That is the truth. Take it or leave it.</p>

<p>It will not change what I did. It will not change who I am.</p>

<p>But at least now you know.</p>

<p>All of it.</p>

<p>My hands firmly gripping the steering wheel. Holding the donut. The roundabout — I travel around and around. No destination. No goal. I hadn't even packed.</p>

<p>The new car smell lingering in my nostrils. The exquisite sound system elegantly blasting salsa from Puerto Rico through its Bose. Everything you would expect from a high-end luxury sedan. The staple of success at $80,000.</p>

<p>The Mercedes-AMG C63 Coupe slid around the roundabout with ease. Weaving in and out of the stagnant traffic around me.</p>

<p>As it was on that July 4th, 2021.</p>

<p>I never would have imagined the predicament I found myself in. It was just that easy.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I walked down the boulevard in the middle of the day, leaving my hostel behind. I didn't have a plan. Stealing a car wasn't on my agenda. It kind of just happened.</p>

<p>I knew it would start. And it did.</p>

<p>I had seen the Mercedes for a moment a few days earlier, out on display along the boulevard, when I walked past it to check out the other cars in the showroom. The staff actually shooing me off. Apparently my attire of flip-flops, shorts, and tank top didn't scream the color green they were looking for.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I had landed in Medellín two weeks earlier from Santa Marta. Over the past three and a half months I had been beach-bumming it across Colombia, arriving in Cartagena from Miami before that. On the road for about five years at this point, moving from country to country at my measure. Colombia being my thirtieth.</p>

<p>After a month lounging around Palomino — resort style. Cold cheap beer. Weed. Beautiful women in bikinis. Sandy Caribbean beaches as far as the eye could see. I was living the dream. Accomplishing everything I had set out to do.</p>

<p>Absolutely nothing.</p>

<p>Early retirement. A life without regret. And I was nailing it. Truly living life to the fullest.</p>

<p>Medellín was not on my list originally. I hadn't heard of it before. My only reference was Narcos on Netflix. Pablo Escobar style.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>As I strolled along, my destination certain, I casually lifted a large rock from the side of the road to my shoulder and continued on my way. Passing lively restaurants as I went. The patrons eating and socializing, living life, unaware of what passed them by.</p>

<p>I hadn't brought anything extra. Flip-flops. Shorts. T-shirt. A joint for the road. And my California driver's license in my pocket. No money. No credit cards needed. It would just start, I assumed.</p>

<p>Passing through the gated communities of Envigado, I continued on my course. No malice intended ahead. Just the soul's obligation of answering the question driving me.</p>

<p>The Mercedes on display. Front and center.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>As I approached the glass wall of the dealership — the massive plate glass doors standing between me and my uncertain fate — I was uncertain of the process. A novice in this department. Outside my realm of expertise.</p>

<p>The simplest of solutions I had resolved by the presence of the large rock on my shoulder.</p>

<p>Midday as it was. Not a person in sight on a Monday afternoon. The normally busy street vacant of movement as I observed my surroundings. A quick second look. And the next instant, the rock was flying through the air.</p>

<p>Inevitably, it impacted the plate glass door. Bouncing off with a loud bang. Unsuccessful with my first attempt, I continued the process. Bouncing this massive rock off the dealership's plate glass doors again and again. Until one of the doors gave way. Fell forward. Shattering on impact with the glossy showroom floor.</p>

<p>The second door directly followed suit.</p>

<p>My fate was sealed. My course of action certain.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The spectacle visible to the passerby — ignored. The armed security guard unmoved from his post. As I stood at the entrance uninterrupted. A leisure to my actions.</p>

<p>I stepped inside.</p>

<p>No alarms. No cops. No security. And all the time in the world, as it seemed.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Standing beside the pristine high-performance machine, its windows rolled down. I took a moment. A subtle metallic silver hiding the raw power under the hood — only observed by the AMG badge of honor.</p>

<p>The Mercedes-Benz C63 Coupe. A beautiful machine of elegance and raw power. A sports car in a suit and tie.</p>

<p>Opening the driver's door, I slid into the leather seats. My hands gripping the steering wheel. Paddle shifters at my fingertips. The start button. The ignition. My purpose at that moment.</p>

<p>Extending my right index finger, I pressed start.</p>

<p>The sleeping beast roaring to life. The 603 horsepower awakened from its slumber.</p>

<p>Without a key I sat. Uncertain of what came next. The car idling, waiting to be set free. The lack of security or alarms confirming my actions. My irrational suspicions.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>In front of my path of escape — an extremely large truck. The only solution, as I exited the superbly comfortable leather seats, was to see if lightning strikes twice.</p>

<p>The raised heavy-duty beast was a hindrance by only a couple of inches, preventing my departure. A thought that had just occurred to me as I climbed the side steps. Opening the wall of a door and taking my seat in the captain's chair.</p>

<p>A simple button of "Yes or No" waiting to be pushed.</p>

<p>The engine turned over. The beast came to life. Shifting into reverse — the beeps indicating my direction of choice. The backup camera navigating my course. Clearing my path.</p>

<p>As I cautiously pulled past the immovable object that once stood in my path. Through the entryway. Over the top of the glass, crackling under the weight and pressure of the wide tires. Making a path ahead.</p>

<p>Destination unknown.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Pulling onto the main road from the dealership parking lot, I took in the day. Windows rolled down. The radio a blend of salsa and jazz. A surreal moment in a day of unintentional insanity.</p>

<p>My foot applying the pressure. Fingers triggering the shift in movement. The rhythm of the mood passing through me.</p>

<p>Unleashing the insanity that brought me this far.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I stopped at a restaurant. A host came out. I asked if he knew how to open the sunroof. He showed me. I offered a test drive. He got in. We drove around the block. I told him to break the tires loose and feel the power. He smiled. Satisfied. We returned. He got out. I asked for two beers. He said yes. I walked to the bar, took two Coronas, and returned to the car. A rolled joint tucked behind my ear. Not yet smoked.</p>

<p>I drove off.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>On a double-lane road, I stopped the car. Got out. Urinated in the middle of both lanes. Traffic continued around me. No one honked. No one stopped.</p>

<p>I got back in. Crossed a bridge.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Then the roundabout. Around and around. Gripping the steering wheel tight. Holding what I later called "the donut." Weaving in and out of stalled traffic. Trying to break the tires loose.</p>

<p>I turned right and accidentally entered a one-way street going the wrong direction.</p>

<p>Oncoming traffic approached.</p>

<p>I slowed down.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>So as the plainclothes officer pressed his .38 revolver against my temple, his other hand holding securely to my shirt collar through the driver's window, I again pondered my life decisions.</p>

<p>I had inadvertently turned off the roundabout onto a one-way street going the wrong way. A plainclothes officer had been conducting routine maintenance on the local traffic cameras when he heard the call of a stolen Mercedes over the radio. As he curiously observed me going round and round the roundabout from his vantage point. When I turned down his street going in the wrong direction — springing into action — he stepped in front of my path, revolver drawn and pointed directly at me as I pulled to a stop in front of him.</p>

<p>Bringing everything to a halt as observers in their cars watched the scene unfold before them.</p>

<p>I had no intention of running. It was more self-preservation than anything else. As now he was standing beside me in an attempt to extract me from the car. His pistol pressed against my head as he demanded I exit the vehicle in Spanish.</p>

<p>With a move of reflex, my right hand quickly clasped around the revolver, covering the hammer. My other triggering first gear as I stepped on the gas. The power pulling us apart as he released his grip on the gun. I pulled away, tossing it on the seat next to me. The officer losing his footing and grip, tumbling away.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I drove a short distance. Saw the officer pursuing on a motorcycle. I stopped the car. Took the gun from the passenger seat. Emptied the bullets into my hand. Threw the bullets into an empty grassy area. Handed the empty revolver back to the officer.</p>

<p>The officer said calmly: "Please sit down."</p>

<p>I said: "Sure."</p>

<p>I sat on the curb.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I couldn't tell you why. It was an irrational intuition that drove me. Thoughts and actions without remorse or hesitation. Void of fear.</p>

<p>I had awakened that beautiful clear day in Envigado. Wandered to a local restaurant around the corner for breakfast. Eggs Benedict. Bacon. Asparagus. Coffee and a shot of Bailey's to start the day right.</p>

<p>Heading back to my hostel, I wandered upstairs to the open patio to lie in a hammock with other travelers. Smoke a joint. Practice playing the brand new guitar I had just purchased a few days earlier.</p>

<p>As noon approached, the decision was made. Standing up. Putting one foot in front of the other. I was going to start that car because I knew it would.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The sensation of life in the moment.</p>

<p>The lack of security and alarms confirming my actions. My suspicions.</p>

<p>I took a moment. Another thought.</p>

<p>Up to this point, my actions were led by an internal drive of necessity without reason.</p>

<p>And then — the handcuffs. The police truck. The holding cell. The nine computer hearings. The guilty plea. The seven-year sentence.</p>

<p>All because I pressed a button.</p>

<p>All because the car started.</p>

<p>All because — for one insane, glorious, inexplicable moment — I knew something the rest of the world did not.</p>

<p>The Mercedes would start.</p>

<p>And it did.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on November 13, 2022. I was in cell #3 at the Envigado police station. I had been there for over a year. I had nine court hearings behind me. I had no idea when I would see freedom again.</p>

<p>But that day — the day of the roundabout, the revolver, the beer on the curb — that day was worth it.</p>

<p>Not because I got away. I didn't.</p>

<p>Not because the car was fast. It wasn't fast enough.</p>

<p>Because for fifteen minutes — between the shattered glass and the handcuffs — I was completely, utterly, irrationally alive.</p>

<p>And that is a feeling I have been chasing ever since.</p>

A 3 Day Journey📍 John Muir Trail, California

---

“He shot my mom in the face first. Then shot my stepbrother in the stomach when he came through the door. I was sitting there and saw it all.”

His dad—now serving life in prison for murder—had come home with a shotgun in a rage. Shot his mom point blank in the face when she opened the door. Then turned on his stepbrother when he tried to intervene.

Tim, ten years old at the time, now nineteen, was watching TV on the couch when his world fell the fuck apart.

---

We stood there, fishing lines dangling in the water, taking in the immaculate view before us. A placid lake nestled at the foot of a cascading valley in the High Sierras. A vast and beautiful rocky mountain range stretching across California, full of lakes and wildlife.

High above the city of Independence at nearly 13,000 feet. The air a bit thinner and crisp. The fading tree line evident of the change. Snow holding brush and growth. The smell of pine and nature all around. Boulders visible as the sun warms the valley. Patches of grass muddied as the snow thaws. The bubbling brook flowing down the steep embankment feeding the tiny lake beside us.

Sounds of nature erupting. Chirps and fluttering as swallows and other native fowl hit their mark, filling their bellies. The sun cresting the massive peaks before us. Revealing the presence of a new day.

We stood as men—facing the elements. Nature. God's work of art.

And God's a funny motherfucker, because right next to paradise He put Tim, a nineteen-year-old junkie who just described his mom's face getting rearranged like it was traffic school.

---

Clothed in rugged jeans, t-shirts, hiking boots, and the occasional jacket, the four of us perched precariously atop our own vantage points to secure success. The native golden browns and rainbows visible below as they swim the continually living current of crystal clear glacier water. Their movement around our bait uninspiring as they ignore the neon yellow PowerBait dangling in front of them—a sure sign of their impending fate in a frying pan.

Tim had just finished telling us how his addiction to heroin started, leaving us silent in the moment.

Silence. On a fucking mountain. With a kid who watched his father become a monster.

And the trout don't give a shit.

The rest of our group—a band of misfits. Rough and tough street thugs from the IE, Inland Empire—still passed out in their tents on the other side of the lake.

Rich. Jimmy. And myself. The volunteers on this man-making adventure. Leading sixteen- to twenty-four-year-old young adults on an excursion of a lifetime. A three-day camping, fishing, hiking expedition. Starting at 9,000 feet in Onion Valley, hiking along the John Muir Wilderness trail to the crest at 14,500 feet over three days.

These hooligans never having stepped foot outside the busy city. Now completely out of their element. At our mercy.

And at the mountain's mercy. And the mountain's a cold bitch.

---

Our journey began three days earlier in a church parking lot.

Yeah. A church parking lot. Where all great shitty ideas are born.

We had a beat-up van, two coolers of warm Gatorade, a tent that smelled like someone's uncle, and enough beef jerky to clog a coronary artery.

The kids showed up looking like they'd just lost a fight with a meth pipe. Hoodies in August. Eyes like smashed glass. One kid had a knife in his sock. Another hadn't slept in forty-eight hours because “the shadows were talking.”

And Tim? Tim got out of his mom's old Honda—she's dead, remember, so it's his now, legally—and just stood there. Staring at the cross on the church roof. Probably wondering if God was taking bets.

“You ever been camping?” I asked him.

“I been homeless,” he said. “That count?”

I laughed. He didn't.

That's when I knew: this wasn't a hike. This was a goddamn exorcism.

---

Three days later, we're standing on the fucking mountain.

The kids cried. Threw up from altitude sickness. One kid tried to fight a marmot. Another had a panic attack because there were no sirens at night.

“It's too quiet,” he kept saying. “Something's wrong.”

Yeah, something's wrong, you little shit. You're in the most beautiful place on Earth and your brain is still looking for a drive-by.

But here's the thing. The humor—the raw, stupid, life-like humor—it showed up anyway.

When Rich slipped on a patch of ice and landed ass-first in a creek, we laughed so hard we almost passed out from the thin air.

When Jimmy tried to cook ramen with a lighter and set his eyebrow on fire, we laughed harder.

When Tim—dead-eyed, heroin-withdrawing, haunted Tim—caught his first trout and held it up like a goddamn trophy and screamed, “FUCK YOU, DAD, I'M ALIVE” at the top of his lungs?

We didn't laugh then.

We fucking cheered.

---

We made fuckers into men.

Not by being nice. Not by holding hands and singing Kumbaya. By dragging their asses up a mountain until their legs quit shaking. By making them build a fire when their fingers were numb. By letting them stare into a lake at 13,000 feet and realize: I did this. Nobody shot me. Nobody stabbed me. I just… walked. And I didn't die.

Tim's still a junkie? Maybe. Probably. I don't know.

That's not the point.

The point is: for three days, on that fucking trail from Redlands to the John Muir crest, a ten-year-old boy who watched his mom die stood on a rock with a fishing pole in his hand and laughed.

Really laughed. At Rich's wet ass. At Jimmy's missing eyebrow. At the trout that got away because he fumbled the net.

And that's the insight, you sonofabitch:

You don't fix people. You just give them a mountain to climb and hope the view does the rest.

Now pack your fucking tent. We got more kids to ruin—I mean, save.

<p>What if you were able to understand different language dialects just a bit better? Based on a switch in your brain that different countries can control? The action triggered by entrance — a crossing of borders. As if speaking a language to be heard.</p>

<p>The sensation in your ears. The perspective of your eyes. Languages of other countries. History forever evolved in a difference of dialects. Hymns. Haws. Physical expressions. A collection of gestures seen, felt, heard with all senses.</p>

<p>Examine the moment of a word.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>What if your life was written by a different set of words that you just don't understand?</p>

<p>Maybe you've met others. Maybe you subconsciously connect with some just a bit more dynamically based on these unknown expressions. That connection built on action and reaction — a push and pull of sorts to the cosmic order of life.</p>

<p>The subconscious construction building inter-nations. Nations within a society of dialects and conversations.</p>

<p>What if you've met the resemblance of a person more than once? Your perspective making connections without thought. Race. Religion. Language. Subconscious gestures speaking volumes. An understanding without perception at the moment of utterance.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>What is our reality?</p>

<p>A brain that compiles the actions and circumstances of a moment. The truth — if there is one.</p>

<p>It starts with God and ends with evolution. God Almighty over the vast expanse of it all. A truth unknown. Unproven. Unrealized reality.</p>

<p>A faith more complex than written word. The vagueness of perception. Explanations without answers. Actions revolving around feelings, emotions.</p>

<p>The brain's possibilities — uncharted. Unreached. Influenced by a history of physical actions. The dynamics of words unmeasured. Unknown.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>This is our life. Our unexplored world.</p>

<p>What if dynamically changing events outside our perspective reveal our actual position in life? The reality of circumstance. The truth of it all.</p>

<p>The answer to the question of our purpose.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this in a holding cell in Envigado, Colombia. Thirty men around me. One toilet. One shower. No privacy. And yet — my mind traveled across borders. Across languages. Across the invisible switches that flip when you cross from one country to another.</p>

<p>I have crossed many borders. Some with papers. Some without. Some legally. Some not.</p>

<p>And I have felt the switch. The subtle shift in perception when the language around you changes. When the gestures mean something different. When a nod in one country is an insult in another.</p>

<p>It is real. The switch is real.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Neuroscience now confirms what travelers have always known: the brain physically changes when you learn a new language. Gray matter density increases. Neural pathways form new connections. The hippocampus — responsible for memory and navigation — actually grows.</p>

<p>But the switch I am describing is different. It is not about vocabulary or grammar. It is about presence. The moment you stop translating in your head and simply understand. The moment the words bypass your conscious mind and land directly in your chest.</p>

<p>That is the switch.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>What is our reality?</p>

<p>I have asked this question in thirty countries. In hostels and prisons. On chicken buses and Mercedes Benzes. Drunk and sober. Free and caged.</p>

<p>I have no answer.</p>

<p>But I have noticed something: the people who claim to have the answer are the ones I trust the least.</p>

<p>The ones who sit with the question — who let it breathe, who let it change them — those are the ones worth knowing.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Language is not just words. It is the space between words. The pause. The hesitation. The breath taken before speaking.</p>

<p>In Spanish, that pause is different than in English. In Thai, the pause can mean respect. In Germany, it can mean uncertainty. In Italy, there is no pause — only more words.</p>

<p>I have learned to listen to the pause. It tells you more than the sentence.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>What if your life was written by a different set of words that you just don't understand?</p>

<p>Then the task is not to learn those words. The task is to learn how to listen without understanding. To sit in the discomfort of not knowing. To let the meaning reveal itself in time.</p>

<p>This is how I have survived prisons, border crossings, corrupt cops, and chicken buses.</p>

<p>I stopped needing to understand everything.</p>

<p>I started trusting that understanding would come — or it wouldn't. Either way, I would keep moving.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The brain's possibilities are uncharted. Unreached.</p>

<p>Prison taught me this. When you have nothing but time and your own mind, you either go insane or you go deep. I chose deep.</p>

<p>I have explored caverns of thought I did not know existed. I have followed rabbit holes to places that frightened me. I have met versions of myself that I did not recognize.</p>

<p>And I am still here. Still writing. Still asking the same questions.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>What is our purpose?</p>

<p>I do not know.</p>

<p>But I suspect it has something to do with connection. With crossing borders — not just physical borders, but the borders between languages, between cultures, between hearts.</p>

<p>Every time I have truly connected with another person, it has been across a divide. Language. Nationality. Class. Experience.</p>

<p>And every time, the connection happened not because of words but despite them.</p>

<p>We understood each other in the pauses.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>This is the complexity of language.</p>

<p>Not the words.</p>

<p>The space between them.</p>

<p>I stare at the sheet of paper before me. My feet propped up as I lay in my lime green hammock I've inherited. The few belongings I've accumulated hanging from the bars. The worn bags — eco-friendly, as they say on the side. The canvas worn but still holding up after months of searching through them.</p>

<p>Others go about their day. Making calls on the remaining smuggled phones the police failed to find during the raid. Some preparing dinner on the double-burner stove in our makeshift kitchen. A stove on a sink.</p>

<p>I hang suspended above, out of the way, left to my own devices. I ponder my life as the epic memories sustain my being. Moments of my past remembered with a twitch of my brow as I question how I made it this far for this long. Avoiding death over and over again. Making life-changing decisions repeatedly in favor of adventure and trial.</p>

<p>My moral compass spinning out of control as I realize I don't much have one. As my current situation can attest to. My home for the past two years — Envigado prison. Another moment in time I can't undo. So many of my decisions holding permanent consequences to my fly-by-the-seat-of-my-pants choices along the way.</p>

<p>I rarely show restraint to the voice in my head. Suggestions of intrigue taking precedence over irrational thought. I live on this crazy ass world the same as everyone else — just trying to survive.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>One similar moment of irrational thought struck a few years back. As I reclined on my leather sofa in my boxers, nursing a glass of whiskey while I watched the all-time classics — The Simpsons. My mind festering on an unusual dilemma of sorts.</p>

<p>I had just recently returned from a programming conference in Rochester, New York a few days earlier. A very cold excursion in mid-January for a Southern California boy.</p>

<p>A conference on the development of new applications for Xerox. Xerox releasing their new app store consisting of numerous useful applications able to be added to any modern Xerox device throughout America and Europe. Millions upon millions of seemingly meaningless copiers, printers, and production presses. Devices held in every business or office.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The Xerox device being one of the most popular choices. A staple in the industry. A device rarely thought of outside the window of use. Networked into secure environments with little thought as the cable moving documents here and there goes unnoticed, plugged into the black.</p>

<p>On average, the default pin is left unchanged — providing access to the system managing those machines.</p>

<p>Xerox had just conducted a contest to stimulate new development of their Conect Key software. Application-based programs displayed on the cell-phone-size screen. Little icons providing unlimited use for these actually complicated devices. Billable upon design. A profitable new tool for competing distributors across the states.</p>

<p>My understanding built on trial and error.</p>

<p>As a new award-winning developer of these Conect Key apps — having placed in all of their contests — meriting my trip to Rochester, New York as a new lead developer of these relatively unknown applications.</p>

<p>The conference: a meet-and-greet of other competing distributors across the nation. A collection of forty or so other programmers sponsored by their corresponding companies. Developers who had been working with Xerox prior to the conference.</p>

<p>Two developers in particular stood out. Their company had been one of the national developing companies originally contracted as the sole producers of these apps. Apps that had been pushed to all the distributors' devices on trial. An example of all that was possible as the company pushed their Facebook feed to the side of the screen. A continual marketing feed available at the request or solicitation of sales reps pitching the benefits of Xerox to their clients.</p>

<p>These two programmers stood as the authority on the development and release of new applications to the market.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>My understanding only came a few months earlier as my position at Xerox Source consisted of developing the company's website, billing portal, online store, and intranet system — connecting all the branches to the most relevant information from corporate.</p>

<p>I had returned to Xerox Source two years earlier in the contract billing department. Advancing quickly as challenges were issued by my superiors.</p>

<p>The Conect Key Apps, as they were called, was a simple yet extremely customizable platform as I would soon learn. The applications, if native to the device, could trigger a host of services streamlined to the repetitive needs of the users.</p>

<p>For example: if Bob, a simple clerk, was required to scan a set of documents, then print three copies, email seven to the same contacts, and save one copy to an archiving server — every day, multiple times a day — a time-saving application could be developed at a premium. Thus saving the client multiple hours of labor time.</p>

<p>This form of application native to the pre-existing features, built into the device. Non-native applications only require the device to be plugged into the network with internet access. Common in business today.</p>

<p>The corresponding application is only a link to external resources needed. For example: if the need to print directions using Google Maps from one destination to the next, the device will use its integrated keyboard to request departure and destination. Then, without any additional actions, print or email with just a click of the icon on the display.</p>

<p>These are simple examples. Anything accessible on the internet could, in essence, be built into an application for sale as the needs arise.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The two developers that I would soon meet at the conference had developed the original applications that were being currently used as examples for distribution across America. At the present time, one of the few apps available on Xerox's newly launched app store. The same application that was available to all distributors of Xerox. The same application I was tasked to investigate.</p>

<p>After connecting the device hard drive to my computer — a Linux-driven machine with the vast capabilities only Linux Kali could provide.</p>

<p>Linux Kali: an operating system unknown to most as the majority of the population use Windows or Mac as their daily drivers — operating systems built for the masses. Kali is an operating system designed for the purpose of penetrating anything computer-based. Its available tools for hacking, cracking, and intruding on systems that may show a hint of vulnerability. The ability to dismantle dynamic websites, access routers and servers without the need of a username or password. The ability to penetrate secure personal computers connected to unsecured networks, accessing private personal data of the user. And many more useful features available at the discretion of the user.</p>

<p>A full-force penetration system. Operating system.</p>

<p>The same system I had just plugged the Xerox hard drive into.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>My screen now displaying the contents. File structure similar to any other computer hard drive as I click through folders to view their content. A mixture of script and unrecognizable files to my untrained eyes. As I work my way through, opening individual files in a text editor, viewing their code. I follow a path unknown. I work my way through, acquainting myself with the system displayed across my screen. I find a constant. A file that is restricted to my access.</p>

<p>After multiple attempts at accessing them with failure, I tried a simple action: renaming the file with a ".zip" file extension.</p>

<p>To my surprise, I could now extract the secure files and view the code in a text editor. Revealing the Conect Key application's makeup. In essence, I was reverse-engineering the apps I set out to understand.</p>

<p>After a few accidental errors that opened more doors of knowledge, I learned that those secure files primarily consisted of an icon only noticed by Xerox devices and a script file that pointed to an external website. A URL that I could follow.</p>

<p>Opening a web browser, I typed in the URL. Revealing, to my surprise, the exact display that showed on the Xerox device display.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Without the ability to initiate actions to a device. For example, when I clicked "Scan to E-mail," a screen would open asking for the standard information — like the email address for the recipient of the expecting document. Which I was able to enter with my keyboard, but the corresponding action of "Enter" would initially do nothing as it was not active on any single device.</p>

<p>The website open to any and all that stumble across it — even though they would not know its purpose or use.</p>

<p>Having thorough knowledge of web development, I dug deeper. A simple right-click of the mouse enabled me to view the web page as code — lines of text written for a computer's understanding. These lines of code painting a picture of the structure and resources used to trigger the actions on Xerox devices.</p>

<p>Normally hidden JavaScript files accessible by following additional URLs, all hosted on external servers of external companies — outside of Xerox. This one in particular belonging to the two developers I was soon to meet, unknowingly, at the conference.</p>

<p>Soon I had access to every file needed to reproduce the applications displayed on every device. The website being extremely simple, calling on preset files. Proprietary Xerox technology open to the world. Access to everything needed to produce actions corresponding to the needs of each device.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Opening a terminal, I typed a few commands, triggering a program that would, in essence, duplicate any website it was pointed at — scraping a website. This action creates directories of files with the corresponding websites and script pages copied to my computer. A process taking seconds rather than hours of saving every referenced web page or file individually.</p>

<p>A true benefit to my current need.</p>

<p>Soon I was creating a slew of new apps for our sales team. Everything from the theatrical — making the icon on the display a photo of the prospective client, which when triggered printed a photo of that person on all networked devices throughout the office — to placing your Starbucks order with your local Starbucks, securely selecting your complete order by entering your credit card information directly on the Xerox device display.</p>

<p>More of a parlor trick for the teachers and purchasing principals of major school districts than actually useful. But this displayed the vast possibilities of what an otherwise simplistic printer or copier could do.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>As I moved forward with the development of these relatively unknown applications, Xerox announced a contest for developers. The best applications submitted would place first through third, receiving cash prizes — a plus in my current position — over a three-month period. Three opportunities. A chance at the grand prize the fourth month.</p>

<p>I had about two months of knowledge now on the abilities of the applications.</p>

<p>And municipalities. The new Print Care application, a staple of Xerox Source, was loaded onto every current and new device shipped out of their warehouses for distribution.</p>

<p>The truth of the matter was: Xerox was holding back on the capabilities now open to anyone with a computer and a USB stick. It also may just be blissful ignorance on their part.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>When Xerox announced the contest, they opened access to the tools needed — sort of. Their new app-building web portal was extremely limited compared to what was actually possible. What it did do was make my current backwards process of development superior to what the other competitors in the field had access to.</p>

<p>There were no restrictions hindering my development because I had no rules to follow at the start. I had learned early on that I could create an application that was just a link — a hyperlink — to whatever website I chose to point it at. And the three new applications I had won awards for were hosted on our private company servers.</p>

<p>For example: when you wanted to order staples for your device, you would click the "Order Staples" icon displayed on the device screen, and everything you see visually is actually just a remote website displayed on the screen in front of you.</p>

<p>If you unplugged the network cable from the back of the device, the application would fail to respond or work. Not a problem in the states. Owning one of these very expensive machines guarantees it will be utilized to its native features — scan to email, etc.</p>

<p>Every application I had built was housed in individual corresponding folders on Xerox Source's servers or web servers. This was also true for the two developers that provided the original apps.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>By finding the link directing me to their demo app provided for distributors, I was able to view all their applications built for every client they had designed for — open to the public. They had provided everything needed to develop all of their past custom apps by not placing them behind a wall of security.</p>

<p>Over the few months prior to the upcoming developers' conference in New York, I had replicated and improved or redeveloped every app I could find of theirs — free on the web. All held on their servers open to the public. Once a link was found, I would just open the terminal on my computer, type the necessary commands, and Kali would duplicate their entire website or application to my computer's folders.</p>

<p>Just that simple.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Right or wrong, I held the position that Xerox corporate provided the necessary tools needed for a fair competition. Any proprietary code was now available to all developing distributors. These were the original scripts, triggers enabling the device to respond to corresponding actions needed to be included in the packaging of each individual application created.</p>

<p>This was not proprietary to any sole distributor. Without the provided scripts, the device would fail to respond.</p>

<p>For example, the digital keyboard displayed on the screen would not open or initiate if the Xerox-provided files were not present on the corresponding server.</p>

<p>All this is important because little did I know — I had now revealed many vulnerabilities around Xerox's new app store and applications. Their lack of security or protocol is built on a continually evolving platform accessible to anyone with a computer or USB stick.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>When you walk up to a printer to make a copy of your confidential paperwork, you rarely think of anything else. The truth is: if the device is connected to a network, that document you just printed could instantly be saved without your knowledge to a remote server. External servers collecting every document scanned, emailed, or printed on that Xerox device.</p>

<p>I say this because I have a clear understanding that this has been done before. Having developed similar applications to replace the "copy, scan" icons on devices.</p>

<p>On every Conect Key Xerox device display, you will find "Print, scan, email" icons you press to produce the corresponding action. If, for example, a person simply took that exact application and added an FTP (File Transfer Protocol) URL with anonymous credentials — meaning no need for a username or password — to the print, scan, and email icons displayed on your device, from that point on, a copy of every document ever processed on that device would be saved to any location of their choosing.</p>

<p>To add the applications to any device, it can be done with a USB stick by walking up, plugging the USB stick into the device, and flashing the new app directly to the device — or by accessing the device's broadcasted IP address on the network without the knowledge of those around. A process that takes less than a minute to complete.</p>

<p>The corresponding company would not be the wiser. There are no additional notifications.</p>

<p>So let's say someone walked into a school, college, or courthouse, opened their laptop, and asked to print a document — connecting to their network — not an uncommon practice. That person then could flash the new app, print their document, and move on in less than five minutes. No one ever being the wiser.</p>

<p>That person now receiving a copy of every document from that point on.</p>

<p>A task that is even more successful with any business without a full-time cybersecurity tech. And even then, most would not notice anything amiss as it goes unnoticed by nearly everyone. The device could be sending copies unnoticed for months or years — depending on the next time its software is updated and only if the icons receive an update.</p>

<p>More often than not? Never.</p>

<p>It could be added to hundreds of thousands of devices without notice. Thousands upon thousands of documents saved as ".tif" images, archived under corresponding IP addresses and email addresses. Sitting idle on unknown servers. Medical, legal, and private documents unknowingly accessible to third parties.</p>

<p>Food for thought — as I've seen it done with my own two eyes. The applications not a threat as they unknowingly send the packages silently.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>So as the conference approached, life was good.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I wrote this on January 3, 2023. I was in cell #2 at the time. The lime green hammock was my throne. The stolen phone was my connection to the outside world. And the memories of reverse-engineering Xerox apps and winning coding contests felt like they belonged to another person entirely.</p>

<p>Maybe they did.</p>

<p>That man — the one in the boxers on the leather sofa, nursing whiskey, watching The Simpsons, breaking into proprietary code with Linux Kali — that man was free.</p>

<p>This man — the one in the hammock, suspended above a makeshift kitchen in a Colombian prison — is not.</p>

<p>But the mind is the same. The curiosity is the same. The willingness to poke at locked doors and see what happens — that has not changed.</p>

<p>Xerox never found out. Or if they did, they never said anything. The contest went on. I won. The apps were deployed. The sales team was happy. The company made money.</p>

<p>And somewhere out there, right now, there are probably still Xerox devices running code I wrote. Icons I designed. Links I pointed at servers I controlled.</p>

<p>It's a strange legacy — a few lines of code scattered across millions of office printers, quietly doing their jobs, never asking who put them there or why.</p>

<p>Like me, I suppose.</p>

<p>Never asking why. Just moving forward. Just pressing the button. Just seeing what happens next.</p>

<p>The Madman's Life</p>

<p>Why I Stole a Car</p>

<p>January 15, 2023</p>

<p>Why I stole a car.</p>

<p>I needed the shortest point between A and Z. The Mercedes bridged that gap.</p>

<p>Apparently, to write — and entering a prison allows that without hindrance. A time of perpetual thought. Every moment in your head examined. Your thoughts processed to exhaustion. Every rabbit hole a plummeting depth into every instance as you examine the smallest fragment of thought.</p>

<p>My thoughts — scary even to myself.</p>

<p>The perspective of my insanity is very real. Multiple versions of myself play out every day. An uncertainty of who I really am. A redefining of my structure as I venture down every shady path available. Every hidden opportunity explored.</p>

<p>The thoughts of my future — exciting. Exhilarating. No limits. Period.</p>

<p>The life I was given was mine. Mine to define. Mine to set the limits. My boundaries are a bit broader than most. My acceptance of the ever-changing gray area known, not hidden.</p>

<p>I have limits. Women and children top my chart. I will break things to correct someone wronged. That doesn't mean I want to hurt people. It means I accept the path I am on — no matter where that may lead. Good, bad — no indifference.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>I was teaching someone the other day how to pick a lock. In return, he taught me — unproven to myself — a new technique.</p>

<p>He explained that if you take the sulfur from match heads and pack them into the key port of a lock — filling it completely with the sulfur from multiple matches — then strike a match and touch it to the tightly packed key port, the small ignition will blow the lock's internal pins. Pop the lock.</p>

<p>In theory, it sounds sound.</p>

<p>But he assured me —</p>

<p>And then the entry ends. Unfinished. A sentence hanging in midair like the lock that never opened.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Perhaps that is the point.</p>

<p>Not every technique gets tested. Not every lesson gets learned. Some locks stay closed. Some theories remain theories. And some stories — like the one about the match heads and the sulfur and the exploding pins — trail off into silence because the teller ran out of time or paper or courage.</p>

<p>I stole a car because I could. Because the Mercedes was there. Because the glass broke and the engine started and the road stretched out before me like a question waiting for an answer.</p>

<p>I did not ask myself why.</p>

<p>I do not ask myself now.</p>

<p>But if you want the truth — the ugly, uncomfortable, make-you-look-away truth — here it is:</p>

<p>I stole a car because I wanted to know what would happen next.</p>

<p>And what happened next was seven years in a Colombian prison. Two years in a holding cell. Nine computer hearings. A transfer to Bella Vista. A release date of March 18, 2026.</p>

<p>And then a walk across a country. A flight on a forced ticket. A hostel in León, Nicaragua. And a blog post written years later, trying to explain something I still do not fully understand.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The match-head trick may work. I never tried it.</p>

<p>The car theft worked. I did try that.</p>

<p>One lesson: some doors should not be opened. Some locks exist for a reason.</p>

<p>Another lesson: if you are going to steal something, steal something worth the price you will pay.</p>

<p>I paid seven years.</p>

<p>The Mercedes? Silver. AMG C63 S Coupe. 600 horsepower. It started when I pressed the button.</p>

<p>I do not regret it.</p>

<p>I do not recommend it.</p>

<p>But I do not regret it.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>The entry ends here. Incomplete. Like the story of the match heads. Like the story of the lock. Like the story of a man who stole a car because the shortest point between A and Z was a broken window and a push of a button.</p>

<p>Z, for the record, was not freedom.</p>

<p>Z was a concrete block. A glass door. A revolver to the neck. And a question I still cannot answer:</p>

<p>Why?</p>

<p>Not why I stole it. I know that.</p>

<p>Why I pressed the start button.</p>

<p>Why I turned right instead of left.</p>

<p>Why I did not run when I could have.</p>

<p>Why I handed the empty gun back to the officer and sat on the curb and drank a beer while they photographed me next to the stolen car.</p>

<p>That is the lock I cannot pick.</p>

<p>Those pins will not move.</p>

<p>And I have stopped trying.</p>

<p>Potter — que había llegado unas semanas antes de Portugal — había estado viajando durante algunos años, moviéndose de pueblo en pueblo a su antojo, deteniéndose en albergues en el camino. Una alternativa económica al ocio de los costosos hoteles.</p>

<p>Originario de Los Ángeles, se había cansado de la sociedad de ritmo rápido. Tuvo pasión por las maravillas a una edad temprana, obstaculizado solo por las realidades de su vida. Su educación mínima — consistente en un diploma de escuela secundaria. Sus intentos en un colegio comunitario local fracasaron. Fallando constantemente en lo básico necesario para avanzar.</p>

<p>Ser un experto en todo, maestro de nada. Una vida de prueba y error. Educación por fuego.</p>

<p>Se sometió a una vida de trabajos ocasionales. Autodidacta, enredando su camino a través de cada puesto ocupado. El crecimiento de la experiencia lo impulsaba al avance y al progreso a lo largo del camino. Nunca satisfecho con el statu quo, saltaba de un trabajo a otro. Un currículum que va desde construcción hasta funerario, asistente forense hasta programador, desarrollador web y marketing. Nunca más de dos años en ningún momento.</p>

<p>La mayoría de las empresas corporativas lo desestimaron por no tener educación. Carecer del prestigio o la diligencia de un título universitario. Hay opiniones que nunca obstaculizan su visión del secreto. Su impulso.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Un hijo de su primer matrimonio — su única gracia salvadora. Un hermoso ángel pelirrojo de ojos azules en su caótica vida. Su verborrea.</p>

<p>Como padre de fin de semana, disfrutó del tiempo juntos. Las conversaciones telefónicas diarias durante ese tiempo se separaron a medida que pasaban los años, su ventana a su vida en constante cambio. Un vínculo que fomentó a lo largo de los años a medida que crecía desde la adolescencia hasta la edad adulta.</p>

<p>Mientras se preparaba para ir a la universidad fuera del estado, la ventana de oportunidad de Potter comenzó a abrirse. La necesidad de estar siempre cerca — desmintiendo. El tiempo de fin de semana juntos creciendo cada vez más raramente. La evolución natural de la juventud a la edad adulta. Las conversaciones diarias ahora cada pocos días a medida que el tiempo con amigos y las actividades ocupadas llenan su agenda diaria. Tiempo de papá e hija — una cosa del pasado.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>El segundo matrimonio de Potter, tan breve como el primero, estuvo plagado de conflictos. Casado con una latina hermosa pero extremadamente voluble con tres hijos adolescentes — fue su perdición. La animosidad de una familia mezclada demasiado para los dos.</p>

<p>Después de dos cortos años y un stent de tres días en el calabozo del condado, lo dejaron. El último de muchos argumentos había llegado por un tema marginal. En un estallido de ira llamaron a la policía. Una situación muy común en el sur de California.</p>

<p>Después de una breve conversación con los oficiales de respuesta para calmar la situación, estaban a punto de irse cuando su futura ex esposa los dirigió a su colección de armas de fuego. Algunos legales. Otros no.</p>

<p>Ahora arrestado por el cargo mínimo de una 9 mm alterada — ilegal en California. Pasó tres días en el condado y luego fue liberado de inmediato. Al día siguiente presentó la demanda de divorcio por segunda vez.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Finalizó la conclusión de su segundo divorcio. La venta de su casa recién comprada requirió la división de bienes ordenada por el tribunal. Y su hija a punto de comenzar su nueva vida por su cuenta.</p>

<p>Volvió su pasión por las maravillas.</p>

<p>Mirando la pantalla de la computadora en su oficina — la fecha límite de los proyectos siempre cambiantes es eminente — abre el navegador de búsqueda de Google y comienza a escribir destinos aleatorios que puedan emocionarlo.</p>

<p>Unos minutos más tarde tomó la decisión mientras sacaba una tarjeta de crédito de su bolsillo trasero. Escribiendo su información personal. Verificando que todo se vea tan bien como podría en los pocos momentos cortos de decisiones que cambian la vida.</p>

<p>Potter había aceptado el destino por mucho tiempo. Era hora de hacer un cambio.</p>

<p>A medida que la página de confirmación del vuelo se muestra en su pantalla — no hay momento como el presente. Presiona "Enter" mientras su impresora comienza a escupir algunas hojas de papel.</p>

<p>Una nueva vida. Una vida de aventuras. No más estar de brazos cruzados mientras el mundo avanza sin él.</p>

<p>Potter iba a hacer realidad sus sueños. Hundirse o nadar. Sin mirar atrás.</p>

<p>Tomando un momento para aceptar su nuevo destino, se levanta de su escritorio agarrando los papeles de la impresora mientras se dirige por el pasillo a la oficina de su supervisor.</p>

<p>"Mike, ¿tienes un momento?" preguntó Potter de pie en su puerta.</p>

<p>"Claro," responde. "Toma asiento y dime qué tienes en mente."</p>

<p>Cerrando la puerta detrás de él, toma asiento.</p>

<p>Su mente se aceleraba porque la decisión había estado gestándose durante los últimos meses, pero las acciones adquirieron una nueva finalidad.</p>

<p>Unos momentos después, la puerta se abre cuando Potter sale. Una sonrisa se extendió por su rostro. La emoción de un nuevo futuro ante él. Aceptando su aviso de dos semanas.</p>

<p>Potter iba a seguir adelante a toda costa.</p>

<p>De pie en el pasillo, toma aire y una vez más mira el papel en sus manos. Un boleto de ida a Bangkok, Tailandia. El destino de su nuevo comienzo.</p>

<p>Potter había aceptado el destino. Renunciando a su posición secreta en una firma establecida — ¿para qué? Vender todo lo que posee y viajar por el mundo. Jubilación anticipada. El sueño de toda la vida hecho realidad.</p>

<p>Dando una última mirada, avanza. Poniéndose de pie frente al otro.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Las siguientes semanas pasaron volando.</p>

<p>Se había dado suficiente tiempo para hacer los arreglos necesarios. Su hija iría a la universidad, la vida de puerta, el mes siguiente. Su vuelo de LAX al mes siguiente. La venta de su casa estaba en las etapas finales de depósito en garantía de su divorcio.</p>

<p>Era el momento adecuado. Durante las próximas semanas las cosas transcurrieron sin problemas. La venta de su casa le permitió pagar todas sus deudas. Con $10,000 en el banco, supuso que podría administrar algunos clientes de forma remota. No queriendo quemar ningún puente con su decisión que cambiaría su vida.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Potter había reducido el tamaño de sus 38 años completos de vida a una sola mochila de viaje Osprey de 38 litros — el tamaño máximo para equipaje de mano. Consistía en algunos pares de ropa, una cámara, una computadora portátil y algunas otras cosas. Su paquete pesaba 30 libras.</p>

<p>Habiendo acampado y caminado gran parte de su vida, estaba satisfecho con el peso.</p>

<p>Pero esto era todo lo que poseía. Todo empacado en una bolsa. Un momento seguro.</p>

<p>La suerte estaba echada. Un nuevo capítulo sin escribir.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>PARTE 3</p>

<p>Potter se sentó allí en la terminal de salida de LAX. Todo lo que poseía a su lado.</p>

<p>Había llegado el momento. Su partida era inminente cuando la azafata hizo la última llamada para abordar. Se pone de pie — las palmas de sus manos un poco sudorosas — se echa la mochila a los hombros y avanza con el pasaporte y el boleto en la mano.</p>

<p>Al pasárselo al asistente, ella sonríe y escanea la tarjeta de embarque y se la devuelve.</p>

<p>Camina hacia adelante sin saber qué le depara el futuro. El nuevo viaje por delante de él. Su comino.</p>

<p>Avanzando, cruza el umbral del muelle de carga. Bajando por la rampa, atravesó la puerta de la esclusa de aire del Boeing 747. La azafata lo dirigió a su asiento junto a la ventana — a mitad de camino por la isla. Asegurando su mochila en el compartimento superior de arriba. Toma asiento. Mirando por la ventana, reflexiona sobre las decisiones de su vida.</p>

<p>¿Era la correcta?</p>

<p>Solo el tiempo lo diría.</p>

<p>Cierran la puerta de la esclusa de aire. La luz indicadora de abrocharse el cinturón de seguridad predice su salida. El capitán dando instrucciones por el intercomunicador.</p>

<p>Próxima parada: Bangkok, Tailandia.</p>

<p>A medida que el avión comienza a despegar, él se asoma por la ventana y observa cómo se desvanecen las luces de Los Ángeles a lo largo de la vasta costa de California. Potter se reclina en su asiento. La emoción y el nerviosismo inundan su ser.</p>

<p>Cerrando los ojos, se desvanece en la aventura de sus pensamientos.</p>

<p>La siguiente parada es Bangkok.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Potter — un poco excéntrico en sus acciones — tiene una curiosidad por el abandono. Un deseo anormal de aventurarse en áreas restringidas. Lugares condenados, aislados del mundo. La belleza de la naturaleza reclamando su lugar legítimo mientras el cemento y el yeso se disuelven bajo el peso del tiempo.</p>

<p>El crecimiento de la recuperación de la naturaleza, ya que se niega a obstaculizar las restricciones que el hombre le impuso. Pavimentaron con cemento y asaltaron los cimientos de esta tierra. El suelo debajo siempre buscando una salida. La belleza de la nueva vida a medida que encuentra un camino. Su crecimiento obstaculizado pero nunca frenado.</p>

<p>Admiró la simple semilla. Sentada inactiva hasta que surjan las condiciones ideales. Lanzándola al avance. Un brote invisible, desapercibido. Del suelo se levanta. La más simple de las necesidades — sol y agua — ilimitada en la vida pero restringida a tantos.</p>

<p>Potter white simula las similitudes consigo mismo. Aware de sus muchos defectos de su humanidad. Un hombre pecador normal a los ojos de los demás y de sí mismo. Su creencia es propia. Sus fracasos a la vista. Una mota de polvo a los ojos de Dios. Un grano de arena en esta tierra que Él creó.</p>

<p>Potter no es un buen hombre. No hay indiferencia hacia su perspectiva de quienes lo rodean. Raza o religión sin importancia para la persona que pueden ser. El cuidado de los demás es su única preocupación. La supervivencia como fuerza motriz. La necesidad de ver y tocar este mundo con las palmas de las manos. El momento suficiente. Su futuro. Su verdor simple.</p>

<p>Enfrenta todos los miedos y sigue adelante. Bueno, malo — no hay diferencia para él en un mundo de líneas grises cada vez mayores. Dividido por la perspectiva de los hombres hipócritas. Un consenso de los tiempos.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>Criado en una familia de lealtades divididas. Sus padres son religiosos pero la misma línea divisoria de marcadas diferencias. Creció en la iglesia cristiana. Su fe en Dios y solo en la Biblia. El predicador una mancha en esta tierra en sus ojos.</p>

<p>Su madre — como cualquier otra — cuida a sus hijos entre una vida de lucha y pobreza. Haciendo lo mejor que puede contra toda oposición. Las almas de los alfareros engendran a un dictador sin imperio que se preocupa por el brutal abuso de generaciones pasadas. La Biblia su muleta mientras confiesa "salvar el camino estropear al niño" durante sus palizas diarias.</p>

<p>Su retorcida definición de amor se muestra en sus acciones mientras sus labios citan la Biblia de memoria. Infligiendo dolor con cada golpe. El roce de un cinturón contra la carne desnuda. Las palabras: "Si mueves el mineral, pescarás, obtendrás más".</p>

<p>La religión de sus fieles escondida detrás de puertas cerradas. Convenciéndose de su justificación cuando afirma: "Esto no es abuso porque no te estoy quemando" — como le hizo su madre, colocando sus manos sobre la estufa caliente como castigo.</p>

<p>Una relación ahora rota en su edad adulta. La única conexión con el pasado de su madre — un apoyo constante en su vida. Un hijo siempre agradecido por su perseverancia continua como proveedora de almas. La fuerza para dejar el matrimonio séptico después de 20 años. Enfrentando un mundo siempre en su contra.</p>

<p>Su relación siempre fue estrecha a medida que pasaban los años.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>El entumecimiento y el corazón encallecido de Potter se transmitieron de padre a hijo cuando comenzó su propia vida después de la escuela secundaria. El inesperado nacimiento de su hija a los 19 años. La infidelidad de su primera ex esposa y el consecuente embarazo entre el amigo más cercano de Potter fueron correos adicionales en el ataúd de su corazón enterrado.</p>

<p>Profundo es el rechazo a los hombres religiosos. Supuestos mentores expresando: "Tú no eres la persona que Dios quiere usar".</p>

<p>Estas son las realidades de su pasado. La vida que iba dejando atrás al romper los lazos del llamado sueño americano. Dejando todo atrás para comenzar un nuevo capítulo.</p>

<p>Los demonios que lo siguen son tan reales.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>El futuro brilla cuando abre los ojos.</p>

<p>La azafata despertándolo de su sueño. El cartel de abrocharse el cinturón de seguridad se iluminó para que no fuera decente.</p>

<p>Bangkok, Tailandia. Su punto de partida hacia un vasto mundo nuevo e inexplorado.</p>

<p>Potters comino.</p>

<p>A mind I do not understand. One that does not rely on my acceptance. One that exists whether I believe in it or not. Its creation of myself — unimportant to its grand scale. God chooses our roles. Our paths. Good, bad, or ugly. An author writing a story as it chooses, and we are just the characters. We do not get to argue with the plot.</p>

<p>My mind — aware of the future. Aware of what the small brown object in my hand holds as I choose to listen. I toss the whole thing into my mouth. I chew it wholly. For the first time in my life, I taste the almond. A slightly sweet, buttery taste. Pleasant. Enjoyable. A gift, really, from a world that does not owe me anything.</p>

<p>Almonds contain cyanide. Did you know that? Bitter almonds, specifically. They hold a compound called amygdalin, which the body converts into hydrogen cyanide. A few dozen raw bitter almonds can kill an adult. Sweet almonds — the ones you buy in bags at the grocery store — are safe. Domesticated. Stripped of their danger over centuries of selective breeding. But wild almonds? Bitter almonds? Those still carry the poison. Nature's little joke. A nut that tastes like marzipan and kills like a spy novel.</p>

<p>I did not know, in that moment, whether the almond in my hand was sweet or bitter. I did not test it. I did not hesitate. I simply put it in my mouth and chewed. Death is always possible. That is not a threat. That is a fact. Every breath could be your last. Every step could be the one that breaks your neck. Every almond could be the one that stops your heart. But life — life is worth the adventure.</p>

<p>There is something freeing about accepting that you do not control the story. The author writes. The author chooses. You just live it. You just show up. You just put the almond in your mouth and trust that the plot is not ready for you to die yet. I have made peace with this. Not through religion. Not through philosophy. Through experience. Through standing in hallways picking locks. Through riding buses that should not run. Through eating nuts that might kill me.</p>

<p>The almond tasted like butter and sugar and something else. Something I could not name. Maybe it was the cyanide. Maybe it was freedom. Maybe they are the same thing. I swallowed. The world did not end. The story continued. It always continues. Not because I deserve it. Not because I am special. Because the author is not done with me yet. And I am curious to see how it ends.</p>

<p>For the record: it was a sweet almond. I lived. I am writing this in Nicaragua, years later, still chewing, still swallowing, still trusting that the next thing I put in my mouth will not be the thing that kills me. But if it is? At least it tasted good.</p>

<p>—</p>

<p>A NOTE ON TREE NUT ALLERGIES AND THE REALITY OF DEATH</p>

<p>My almond did not kill me. But for millions of people, a single almond — or any tree nut — can be a death sentence.</p>

<p>Tree nut allergies are among the most common and most dangerous food allergies in the world. Walnuts. Cashews. Pistachios. Hazelnuts. Brazil nuts. Pecans. And yes, almonds.</p>

<p>Unlike the slow, enzymatic death of cyanide poisoning — which takes dozens of bitter almonds and several hours — anaphylactic shock can kill in minutes. Sometimes seconds.</p>

<p>Here is what happens: The immune system mistakes a harmless protein in the nut for a deadly invader. It floods the body with histamine and other chemicals. Blood vessels dilate. Blood pressure plummets. The throat, tongue, and airways swell shut. The person cannot breathe. The heart cannot pump. Organs fail. Death by anaphylaxis is not peaceful. It is suffocation while fully conscious. It is your own body turning against you because it thought it was saving you.</p>

<p>According to the World Allergy Organization, food allergies affect an estimated 220 to 550 million people worldwide. Tree nut allergies alone affect approximately 1-2% of the global population — up to 160 million people. In the United States, tree nut allergies affect about 1.1% of the population — roughly 3.6 million people. Of those, nearly half have a history of severe reactions. About 1 in 13 children has a food allergy of some kind. Tree nuts are among the top eight allergens responsible for 90% of all serious reactions.</p>

<p>The numbers are stark: Food allergies cause approximately 30,000 anaphylactic reactions requiring emergency medical treatment in the US each year. Between 150 and 200 people die annually from food-induced anaphylaxis. Tree nuts are a leading cause.</p>

<p>Unlike my gamble with a potentially bitter almond — a choice I made freely and consciously — people with tree nut allergies do not have a choice. A single cross-contaminated surface. A hidden ingredient. A mislabeled package. A kiss from someone who ate a granola bar hours earlier. Any of these can trigger a reaction that ends in a hospital bed or a body bag. For them, an almond is not a philosophical adventure. It is a terror.</p>

<p>EpiPen — the brand-name epinephrine auto-injector — has become a symbol of this reality. The drug itself costs about $1 to manufacture. But in 2016, Mylan Pharmaceuticals was charging over $600 for a two-pack. Parents rationed injectors. Schools struggled to afford them. Children died. Public outrage eventually forced a price drop, but the damage — both financial and mortal — was done. Even with epinephrine, survival is not guaranteed. The injection buys time. Sometimes only minutes. The patient still needs emergency care. Still needs oxygen. Still needs a prayer.</p>

<p>I chewed an almond because I did not fear death. Or because I did, and I ate it anyway. Or because I was young and stupid and lucky. Take your pick. But someone with a tree nut allergy does not get to be philosophical about the almond. The almond is not a metaphor for them. The almond is a loaded gun. And the trigger is always half-cocked.</p>

<p>If you or someone you know has a tree nut allergy, carry two epinephrine auto-injectors at all times. Know the signs of anaphylaxis: hives, swelling, difficulty breathing, vomiting, dizziness, sense of doom. Use the epinephrine at the first sign of a reaction. Call emergency services immediately. Do not wait. Unlike my almond, their next one might not be sweet.</p>

To: Network Operators, Signal Partners, West Coast Infrastructure Leads
From: Evan Winter – Direct Connect Subscription
Coverage: All of California – Entire West Coast (USA)
Contact: Evan Winter [#87458292]

THE PITCH

You need a signal that doesn't drop. I'm offering the one that won't.

Introducing a direct-connect subscription for Signal and network infrastructure — built for the entire California West Coast. From the Oregon border to San Diego, from the coast to the Central Valley, this is a dedicated, priority-access network subscription with no middlemen, no throttling, and no dead zones.

WHAT YOU GET

- Direct signal routing – no carrier detours
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- West Coast全覆盖 (all of it – north, south, coastal, inland)
- Fixed-rate subscription – no overages, no surprises

WHO NEEDS THIS

- Event broadcasters (like my Fiveo1.com boxing productions)
- Field operations teams
- Mobile production units
- Any business that cannot lose signal

THE EVAN WINTER DIFFERENCE

I don't resell. I don't broker. I direct-connect you to the signal. My contact is your contact. When you need West Coast coverage, you call me directly.

SUBSCRIPTION OPTIONS

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Coverage: Major metros (LA, SF, SD, Sac)
Best for: Business ops

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Coverage: Every signal-accessible point in CA
Best for: Broadcast, events, critical coms

Pricing: Custom quote based on your specific signal needs. No contract lock – month-to-month available.

THE CLOSE

You have two choices:

1. Keep paying retail carriers for signal that drops the second you leave the freeway.
2. Subscribe to my direct-connect network and own the West Coast.

CONTACT EVAN WINTER DIRECTLY

- Reference: #87458292
- Platform: Signal / Direct network inquiry
- Response: Same day

Send your location and coverage needs. I'll reply with your subscription rate and connection credentials.

SHORT VERSION (TEXT / SIGNAL MESSAGE)

Evan Winter – Direct Connect Subscription – West Coast (all of California)
Need signal that actually covers the entire West Coast? No dead zones. No carrier middlemen. Direct routing. Fixed rates.
I cover all of California – north to south, coast to inland.
Message me with your coverage needs. I'll send your subscription rate.
Contact: Evan Winter [#87458292]

<p><strong>BUSINESS PROPOSAL – CONFIDENTIAL</strong></p>

<p><strong>TITLE:</strong> "Pan-American Showdown: Corona to Caracas"<br>
<strong>DATE:</strong> May 12, 2026<br>
<strong>TO:</strong> Todd Martin, Omega Products International<br>
<strong>CC:</strong> Kenny Tommson (Owner), Kevin Wensel (Marketing), Matt Rodgers (Image Source)<br>
<strong>FROM:</strong> Evan Winter (#87458292), Fiveo1.com</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>1. EXECUTIVE SUMMARY</strong></p>

<p>Live, exclusive professional boxing event broadcast solely on Fiveo1.com from a venue off the 91 freeway in Corona, CA.</p>

<p>Viewership across:<br>
- South America: Bella Vista (Colombia), Caracas (Venezuela)<br>
- Central America: Panama, Costa Rica, Nicaragua<br>
- North America: Mexico, and the US West Coast (South/North)</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>2. KEY STAKEHOLDERS</strong></p>

<p><strong>Kenny Tommson</strong> – Owner, Omega Products International (Final approval)<br>
<strong>Todd Martin</strong> – Senior Management, Omega (Logistics liaison)<br>
<strong>Kevin Wensel</strong> – Marketing, Omega (Brand integration)<br>
<strong>Matt Rodgers</strong> – Image Source (Media production)<br>
<strong>Evan Winter (#87458292)</strong> – Fiveo1.com / Former Omega Marketing (Event producer)</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>3. RELEVANT EXPERIENCE (Evan Winter)</strong></p>

<p>- Former marketing contributor – Omega Products International<br>
- Past work with Matt Rodgers – Image Source<br>
- Other past employments in event logistics and media (details upon request)</p>

<p>This combined experience ensures professional execution and brand alignment.</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>4. THE EVENT & BROADCAST</strong></p>

<p><strong>Venue:</strong> Corona, CA – off the 91 freeway (91/10 interchange corridor)<br>
<strong>Main event:</strong> Professional boxing match<br>
<strong>Opponent:</strong> Any fighter in the world (preference: Colombia, Venezuela, Mexico)<br>
<strong>Broadcast:</strong> Exclusive live stream – Fiveo1.com<br>
<strong>Secondary:</strong> Additional syndication TBD (Evan Winter to finalize)</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>5. OMEGA PRODUCTS INTERNATIONAL – SPONSOR BENEFITS</strong></p>

<p>- Title sponsorship ("Omega Products Fight Night")<br>
- On-site branding (ring, banners, venue, hospitality area)<br>
- Broadcast integration (pre-roll, mid-roll, commentary mentions)<br>
- Client hospitality access at live Corona venue<br>
- Post-event highlight reels for Omega internal/external marketing<br>
- Lead marketing alignment with Kevin Wensel</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>6. OPTIONAL PRODUCTION PARTNER</strong></p>

<p>Matt Rodgers / Image Source – Available for:<br>
- On-site camera crews<br>
- Broadcast-quality imaging<br>
- Media asset management for Fiveo1.com</p>

<p>To be engaged at Omega's discretion or Evan Winter's production budget.</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>7. FINANCIAL STRUCTURE</strong></p>

<p><strong>Evan Winter (#87458292) covers:</strong><br>
- Broadcast production (Fiveo1.com)<br>
- Fighter procurement and travel<br>
- Venue setup and insurance</p>

<p><strong>Omega Products International contribution:</strong><br>
- Open for negotiation (cash sponsorship, venue provision, or in-kind services)</p>

<p>Final marketing budget to be determined by Kevin Wensel and Evan Winter after preliminary approval from Kenny Tommson.</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>8. NEXT STEPS</strong></p>

<p>[ ] Todd Martin – Site walkthrough in Corona (off 91 freeway)<br>
[ ] Kenny Tommson – Preliminary concept approval<br>
[ ] Kevin Wensel – Define brand deliverables and marketing budget<br>
[ ] Matt Rodgers – Confirm Image Source production role (if needed)<br>
[ ] Evan Winter – Book fighter and finalize Fiveo1.com broadcast schedule</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>9. CONTACT & AUTHORIZATION</strong></p>

<p>Respectfully submitted,</p>

<p><strong>Evan Winter (#87458292)</strong><br>
Fiveo1.com<br>
Former marketing contributor – Omega Products International<br>
[Your Phone Number]<br>
[Your Email Address]</p>

<p>---</p>

<p><strong>Authorized signature for Omega Products International:</strong></p>

<p>_________________________________<br>
Kenny Tommson (Owner)</p>