Trey Ellis would probably call me a ‘cultural mulatto,’ and you’d probably agree; America is not the dream, it’s where you sober up (with a bad hangover) and get (de) familiarized to the color of your skin. But sitting here on Baghramian Ave., squinting my eyes at couples perched at their tables I wonder if they ever think of their next bold move' and if (my) morbidity ever discomforts them. Trapped in the sky, like Lucine Zakarian's krounk, always homebound and always lost on the way, I'm building a nest in each port. Staying in one place has become a sore. Perpetrating counter- culture’ has grown into a bad habit. But this, of course, you already know.