In Spain, the dead are more alive than the dead of any other country in the world.
There is nothing more poetic and terrible than the skyscrapers' battle with the heavens that cover them.
Not for a moment, beautiful aged Walt Whitman, have I failed to see your beard full of butterflies.
The two elements the traveler first captures in the big city are extra human architecture and furious rhythm. Geometry and anguish.
As I have not worried to be born, I do not worry to die.