Between the Mountain and the City

On one of my many adventures, when I was leaving the city of Vallejo to live again in the cosmopolitan San Francisco, one hot night, I parked my car on a not-so-busy street and prepared to spend the night. To wait for the new day, to see what I would do with my life. I fell asleep but was awakened by sweat, which had a strange sticky feeling all over my body. Then the strange idea occurred to me to open the car window a little. I settled back down and fell, again, sound asleep. The...
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On one of my many adventures, when I was leaving the city of Vallejo to live again in the cosmopolitan San Francisco, one hot night, I parked my car on a not-so-busy street and prepared to spend the night. To wait for the new day, to see what I would do with my life. I fell asleep but was awakened by sweat, which had a strange sticky feeling all over my body. Then the strange idea occurred to me to open the car window a little. I settled back down and fell, again, sound asleep. The surprise the next day was huge.

You already figured it out.

The door ajar, the gold chain that hung around my neck, gone. The trunk of the car, open. And when I went to assess the damage, one suitcase lost. It even hurt my life. Because that suitcase contained my full story. My book, my poems, my drawings, my paintings. Several video cassettes containing copies of television programs I had hosted, audio cassettes with copies of radio programs that I did, pictures, appreciation letters, diplomas, certificates. My story turned into absolute zero.