Dog Eat Dog

Every morning in Caracas, before dawn, we´re awakened by riveting explosions, one is so close it rattles the bed, making the windowglass shiver.

The first night, this being Caracas, me and Brown Eyes suspect the origin of it being some sort of violent act, but as the dust settles and the night shrinks back into relative silence from the cacaphony of alarms set off by the blast, I hear a faint sound I recognize, a series of beeps, like a foghorn, counting down to yet another blast, which in turn orchestrates a new symphony of protesting car-alarms in its wake.

It´s my wake-up call. As Brown Eyes falls back to sleep I go up to the window, making a small gap between the curtains, peering out, waiting for daylight.

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