Peter. I thought he was history. He came this morning. Still looking broken and lost. I could see that there is no more shred of hope nor dreams in him. And my thoughts turned to the many youthful broken and destitute souls walking the streets of Lusaka. Ragged and foul smelling, like a burst sewer line, there he was in my living room, AGAIN! About the encounter, I guess it is me that was hurt. Peter is a melancholic palimpsest of my failure as a human. For long, I always hoped he has realised I was just a dreamer then. But no, he has not. If only I could. After he left, all I could do is read my testament about him over and over again. Where did I go wrong? Here is the testament, "Peter! I am sorry" [http://mbinjimufalo.blogspot.com/2010/03/peter-i-am-sorry.html].
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