In Hamburg I left my notebook.

I left it on the table at a caribbean-pacific restaurant called Roatan.

On the next day I called the restaurant, and they were very kind. Said they'd send me back the thing, but somehow it never happened.

It may be due to my personal bad feeling with the mail, though.

Many packages addressed to me seem to have been collected by unknown people, styling themselves as me, at improbable times and hours.

Many packages have lost their way, and many others have gone to the wrong number of the street.

So I wonder who's reading the account of my Hamburg days, right now, and if they intend to get it published, to which I would agree.

I'd really like to get a look at that notebook just to remember a sentence that I had read on a wall, and then another that was written on the pavement.

I had taken pictures of them.

But guess what? I've lost them all...

There must be a meaning in that.