The man is gone, His table now obscured by two younger women. Dark clothes, no charicter, backs to the window. The coffee got cold and bitter; will they top it off? I guess it doesn't matter, he's gone, the picture of Ginsberg and Kerouac by Bruce Davidson (moved on from Morocco) squeezed out whatever was keeping me here. Was it the picture itself, or its altering of perception? Either way, it is now time for me to get on the road.