Sketches and scratches
The script is always the same: Madrid staggers, kisses the canvas, the referee counts to 8, the public begins to whistle, to get impatient. And suddenly, the rush. Saint Vitus’ dance
Madrid had to go back to what it always did: to put the ammonia cotton under its nose to come back from the dead when no one believed in its possibilities anymore. On European nights like this, everything seems so scripted in the…
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