I started to write again. Furiously with passion and purpose. I stumbled. I wrote more. I tripped. I wrote less. I began to drown. I didn't pick up the pen. I couldn't catch my breath, I closed the notebook. I thought about my dreams. I imagined the Valle de Guadalupe. I saw the wind swept vineyards and rolling mountains. I felt my heart beat. I looked for my notebook. I found my pen. I found myself writing. I found my dreams.