madrid is in the process of something. of overlapping colour with colour, carvings with dust, cobblestones with the clip clop of jimmy´s shoes as he walks over them. we are filling the streets with our loud australian-ness, we are laughing and dancing and falling over, arm in arm. this is a thing i have missed. we are sitting in cafes and in the crevice under the cupboard, and i am watching his silence as jim smokes a cigarette, another. and then i am alone against the formidible cry of this language as it rises, and i am catching small parts of it, seeing through walls, through keyholes, seeing the yellow warmth within. we have missed flamenco, and will again on wednesday, but tonight i am posing as an english teacher and crashing jimmy´s work party. if anyone asks, i am doing subbies.