Clothes hanging on a terrace in Toledo. Clouds of pink and powder blue, ethereal Monet fading in a horizon where the future’s being built out of haze and white lines. My mind dives into the warm shades of the bricks and tiles and painted walls, escaping from the ever-so-green summergreen slithering green flying green melting underneath this rain of liquid steel. The apostles in the cathedral are debating tomorrow’s news, but nobody in town could talk about what’s going on with me today. And nothing moves around me, as if the world made of stone were this and not that, not that corner amid the thorny tower that reaches for the sky.