there are twirling hands and ruffed skirts and tapping of feet and women that are women and women children and men boys on horses and the authenticity of peoples hearts under the slight artificilatity of this place. and there is raucous singing and dancing, everywhere, everywhere, everywhere i turn. its the april fair in seville. i leave this city once again and there is a certain chagrin in my heart and somehow for the first time it is reflected perfectly in the flamenco that reaches my ear like a scream from this soundbox.

the torturous beauty of things. and then there is silence.