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".