Notes from the overground


[Madrid diametrically opposed to Berlin and Budapest, floral, still, you have your desolate and rotten neighborhoods, drugs, shit, disgrace, but the temperament is different in Madrid. Why is that? How far is the danger in days, in kilometers? Madrid, city of thieves, Madrid, city of whores. Madrid, the constant ever-changing putrid stench, how I love you. You’re like the bitch I let run wild at the back of the house. She’d wander home some nights after days of abandon with the carcass of another dog she’d killed. She’d lie with it near the house in whatever darkness remained and then take it back out to the fields, burying it, I assumed, at dawn. I wonder why she treated those carcasses that way, like kin, and I wonder why I wonder it. Men have no sanction here. Thirty thousand years ain’t shit next to four and a half billion…]

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