When I worked graveyards at the gas station in the early 90s, the man who relieved me mornings, a radical Indian named Hawk, smoked this vanilla tobacco that perfumed his long hair; just a whiff at 7:30 am made my stomach roar.
How I hungered for sweetness!
Hawk left the gas station to teach at the Indian university, and no one needed to tell me it was time for me to find new work.
Similarly, when the incense ceases to flow from the temple of our Señora de Guadalupe, even the heathens know the show is over.
shewhodaresnothing 