It is the last day in Madrid and my local coffee shop is not open. Which is fine because I go somewhere else and they dust cinnamon on my latte and give me 20 cents off for coming with a reusable cup. In this sense, nothing is not replaceable.

Changes by David Bowie plays in the Uber on the way to the airport.

The right understanding of any matter and a misunderstanding of the same matter do not wholly exclude each other. Kafka, The Trial.

having a vermouth with you

is even more fun than any coke, well
almost always. 
Subliminal intoxication is meant to be 0.05%.
So, shall we have another round? 

On Gericault’s raft there is no singular hero,
which is funny because it is in the Louvre 
and we are here. 
Freud would think the hero is an individual:
himself
who looks down on us, because we lack courage (Courage!) 
Yet we possess the art of conversation, 
which is funny because that could be anywhere
and we are here.

Leaving the Atocha station (in March)
it was not the profundity of the art that brought me to tears 
nor the sleep deprived nights 
nor the lapse of reality into empty idealism
not even the absence of orchestrated manoeuvres 
but (in June) 
a gratitude that this was never steeped in a shortfall of words.

Half a cigarette
the conversation is hewed. 

It’s a strange way of life. 
The best part, the worst part, any regrets?
I think 
maybe,
one fine morning
on the balcony with a cigarette. 

What is your idea of perfect happiness? 
Proust demands. 
A series of collated moments, 
comes my response. 
So, shall we have another round?  

One last thing before I forget. The coke is still on the shelf. 

gracias por todos Madrid, eleanor xx