For a day, I am both Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera at once. They battle it out. It is like a thousand chandeliers falling. I walk through the rainy streets of this city, stepping over puddles, and they fly at one another. All of Mexico watches in silence. I stop in a cafe and sit in the corner window. I like to watch it rain. I eat a piece of pie. I think about how primitive a fork actually is. I mean, just look at a fork. This tells you what sort of animal. You can use the finest silver, ornament it with festoons and flowers. But it is a pronged thing. Used to spear hunks of dead beasts. And innocent things like pie.  When I go to bed, I put Frida and Diego away like playthings. They are done being wrong, being right. I hear only the rain at the end of the night. The way it hangs on the eaves of my house. Desperate.