To Miles,

You love famous last words, so here are mine.

There is but one way out of Bolívar's

labyrinth, written in blue ink on page

one ninety-two of my green paperback.

In the backseat of Blue Citrus lies a

dozen white tulips. Why? Well, stupid me

forgot the anniversary of my

own mother's death. On January ninth,

I had my fondest memory with her.

The next day, I watched her die beside me.

I am leaving this labyrinth in the

only way that I know how ─ straight and fast ─

My dear Miles, I can't escape my past.

There is no such thing as the "Great Perhaps".