A sequel that describes a continuing story is an uninvited imposture masquerading novelty. Were our own lives divided into orderly segments, the mask of self-importance might conceal many scars- betrayals, blunders, lust and other party revelers. Alas, we skip through days- fat little stoned bears, knocking over ripe trash barrels. One thing always leads to another and after it's over- well, who will judge and who will judge the judges? Ordinarily I would have avoided that rude looking diner but I was hungry- famished really and I had been drinking. Unbelievably, she was there- with new friends, looking like I remembered. A tribute to African foundation- she acknowledged me- dark eyes, full lips, perfectly orbiting whatever she was eating. Momentarily, the past reached back- incapable of suppressing an image- drops of perspiration on her dark muscled back. So I drank a toast: "To me," as I watched fingers of wine run inside the glass. "I have left much in my wake as I struggled to be present."