an infinite pass of red cape

Around five years ago I was sharing a joint with Antonio, a new friend, and his girlfriend, whose name escapes me today, in the garden outside the royal palace in Madrid. About three hours prior to this moment, she, the girlfriend, had found me sitting alone in a bar in the city center, and I was very glad to be found. Antonio was a college student and poet. I don't know much else about him, in terms of details, but I can attest to his generosity and genuine nature, the first of which can be faked but the latter being both undeniable when experienced and at the same time only perceivable through intuition. I hadn't at this point ever thought about bullfights, but I was obsessed with the idea of writer-as-identity or writing as a reflection of character. This would have been about two years before, in an act of maybe moral grandstanding, I swore to quit writing myself. In the garden that night, however, I only knew that I was incapable of writing honestly. I knew that a large pa...