Wednesday, October 12, 2005

On the underside of the railroad bridge, immigrants walking across the border from Mexico left their graffiti behind. The charcoal sketches proclaim their names, their hometowns, their dreams.

I thought about those men and women as I stopped at the Border Patrol station set up on the road heading north from Tombstone. I guess a lot of dreams are dashed when the immigrants are caught. Other dreams end in the nightmare of thirst in the desert- this year a record number of immigrants have died. They've been pushed into the far desert as Arizona's small border towns have become more difficult places to cross at.

I thought above dreams after I bought a PowerBall ticket. $240 million, $118 million cash. I wonder what dreams I could fulfill with that money.

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