In my mind the corridors are curved cream colored walls broken by narrow hand high wooden ledges.
Clouds pour slowly through time’s windows over the towering mountain ranges that ring the city although from time to time thin wisps whip among them, darting playfully in and out of plunging chasms.
The air is chilly at seven thousand feet, even in the midst of equatorial splendor, at least some of the time; especially at twilight and at sunrise.
I miss my bathtub’s steaming waters, brandy slowly warming, coiled dozing in a comforting snifter while I explore peripheral worlds encrypted in black symbols on the white remnants of ancient trees. Blankets, even blended from the wool of exotic alpacas, just can’t provide the same stimulus.
A bathtub! Who’d have thought it could make such a big difference. Or better, a steaming outdoor spa pouring into a frigid pool. In the twilight between dreams I feel the heat and taste the blending moisture, shifting spectra from blues to greens to yellows, then back to reds.
In the mountains, sulfurous thermal springs pouring into searing pools, both natural and manmade, laugh at my dreams.
 © Guillermo Calvo Mahe, Manizales 2010; all rights reserved