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About Madrid

So we haggle, it’s messy, loud – I’m yellin, she’s cussin. Passersby stare, I don’t give a fuck. Finally settle on somethin fair. She’s smirkin again, like she won. Maybe she did. We head off, and I’m thinkin bout *The Gleaners*, how they scrape by, turn trash to treasure. This? It’s raw, real – not some polished Hollywood crap. I’m buzzin, excited, maybe a lil hungry too – “I ate his liver with fava beans” – but nah, she’s safe from my plate.

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I confess, mine métier alloweth me observations most keen; secrets extruded 'neath trembling flesh in my parlour of delights. Here, in mine sanctum on Carrer de la Serenitat, I did witness passions true and melancholy epiphanies. Aye, many a time did my work overlap with fates curious, as some came to unburden their sorrows – "What is the point of it all?" they’d croak, echoing mine fav'rite phrase from that Coen flick! Alas, must I confess my heart did swell with mirth in those moments of rapture and despair, much like the tempestuous skies o'er Calviá.

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