Rachael, you remember how we watched Fidel Castro speak about the five-year plan on TV in the hotel room in Playa Ancón Cuba in 2002. How in five years Cuba’s problems would be fixed and all would be well and all manner of thing would be well? We went down to the beach and ate cucumber sandwiches and waded a half-mile out in the warm green waves and then came back to the hotel room and Fidel was still talking about the white-hot future. Who could have foretold that five years on you would be dead and I would be an asshole and a fool and Cuba would be the same as it had been? Rachael, I don’t like it when your ghost visits me in my hotel room. Return to your celestial spheres with the other dead and leave me alone finally. I won’t be your Dante. I won’t go to hell. All I’ve got is the magical thinking that believes without guile that tomorrow will be easy. I know the future will be fraught and eventually will be unbearable, but I can only believe otherwise, expecting long days of sweetness and divinity. So it is with everyone: there is no one who is not awaiting some messiah.
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