This is the year the world is suppose to come to an end again and I continue to scrape by scratching my ass to the bare minimum. These are my thoughts walking down a well lit street across a city that doesn’t even need cabs. At the center of the city lies a stone sculptor of a small mission that once stood then fell and we celebrate the fallen. It is possible that a lot of the fallen Mexican comrades at the battle of theAlamofelt like complete failures as they bleed out into their hay beds while the Mexican army surrounded their shoddy little hut. Thinking that their powerful rulers had won over everything they worked so hard for and nobody would avenge them, not even the Americans. Nameless heroes died in that hallow fort with no idea there would be a response attack days later on the hills ofSan Jacinto. The men of theAlamoheld that shit down together for days and was the loss was avenged in (give or take) eighteen minutes but everybody knows that except the fallen. The poor, toothless, dirty Mexicans who probably loved drinking and whores more than any other American hero would have inTexascirca 1836. These heroes probably didn’t think much past the whores and their freedom. Maybe that’s why they lost. Fighting for freedom wasn’t enough. It was vengeance that fueled the rage that brought us to victory. That and shit load more Mexicans with guns.
These are my thoughts walking the street across a city that needs no lamp post when a old town car almost strikes me at the hip at the intersection. I feel more lucky than disappointed. Helluva sign.