The weeping of the guitar begins. The goblets of dawn are smashed. The weeping of the guitar begins. Useless to silence it. Impossible to silence it. It weeps monotonously as water weeps as the wind weeps over snowfields. Impossible to silence it. It weeps for distant things. Hot southern sands yearning for white camellias. Weeps arrow without target evening without morning and the first dead bird on the branch. Oh, guitar! Heart mortally wounded by five swords.

In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.

The terrible thing is that the crowd that fills the street believes that the world will always be the same and that it is their duty to keep that huge machine running, day and night, forever. This is what comes of a Protestant morality, that I, as a (thank God) typical Spaniard, found unnerving.

I will always be on the side of those who have nothing and who are not even allowed to enjoy the nothing they have in peace.

Death laid its eggs in the wound

Verde que te quiero verde. Verde viento. Verde ramas. Green I love you green. Green Wind. Green branches.

The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.