I love strolling around Parque Mexico in the afternoon. There are always a lot of people ambling through organic paths with dogs that is natural to me. And yet it often makes me wonder why there are always a bunch of dogs there. For example, a person leans his back on a Palm tree and puffs a cigarette contentedly. And before him, over a dozen of dogs lay down on the ground in order, waging their tails restfully. People pay him for looking after their dogs while working, perhaps? He must be a Mexican dog keeper, I guess.
By the time I arrive at the park, there has been already many people enjoying the warm afternoon in a luminous sun-ray and serenely listening to the breeze soughing in Lebanese cypresses. I sit on a bench alongside a small lake which is inhabited by ducks and swans. And then I hypnotically contemplate a dug that is floating tranquilly on the undulated water in the current. “Buda could be floating on a river as sedately as it,” I think to myself entrancingly. And all of a sudden, sitting there alone in the dazzling sunlight, my boyhood chum’s image is cropping up in my mind apropos of nothing. We had created a number of adventures and pranks. We had a great time together and were inseparable once. Our brotherhood ended abruptly when we were in the third grade. I am wondering what he has become now.