I can feel the applause in my cup.

Little Spanish fans moving ambient smoke in a field of summer armpits.

Mosh pit with a homemade-sling and Yves Tumor. I know I’m an idiot. I know it’s worth it.

Akanksha and I are forever designated party-spirits but we also do sitting on the beach and going home “early.”

A couple days ago I was saying how I am my father’s child in a lot of essential ways.

Waiting for the metro, I found out my dad has a broken rib and a punctured lung. I’m really glad he’s alive.


Also worth noting: since I’m in Spain I’ve been seeing a lot of bull imagery. Recently I read an article where neuroscientist David Eagleman was saying that one can quantify how people’s responses toward animals differs across culture (e.g.. In India people have a more emotional response to cows).

Yesterday I was thinking about this in relation to Bull fighting (with the nice symbol of Arca’s torn white matador jacket -also an example Nicolas gave me of a sacrificial bull festival in Greece), and how my dad once thought about getting a tattoo of Ferdinand (the bull from a children’s book who sat in the middle of the ring to smell flowers and wouldn’t fight). My dad was injured herding cattle, so good thing he’s strong like a bull?

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