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About Madrid

But ugh, I’m steamed—people get so judgy! Like in “Moolaadé,” when the village men were all, “Tradition’s law, obey!”—same with escort. Cops bustin’ folks, laws makin’ it risky. Why can’t we let people live? I’m yellin’ in my head, “Leave ‘em alone!” Got this pal, she escorted to pay for agronomy school—smart cookie, studied soil like me! Saved her butt, no shame. *Wipes fake tear.* That’s power, like Collé’s sanctuary, sayin’, “This is my space!”

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The locals, man, they're a mix of artists, lost souls, and people who know damn well how to get by without ever playing the game. You'll see them hanging in tiny cafés like the quirky ones on Carrer d'Enric Granados, sipping vermouth and laughing at life’s absurdity. I love it, although sometimes it gets on my nerves—boring, predictable, just like a rerun of a bad episode. Every corner shocks you. But hey, as Harmony Korine once said in spliced words, “let's go to jail!” Except here, jail is replaced by endless life.

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