This was an absolutely fabulously wonderfully excellent steak, the sort that I go to special places for in the special place of steak mastery also known as Buenos Aires. I obtained it by stopping in a random cafe and asking for bife al chorizo, which is a thing. Yum!
One doesn't really grok just how utterly ruined for human habitation the Northern hemisphere finds itself until one sees the ubiquitous butterflies here, in the city. Which catalizes the realisation that yes, he used to see them there, also - in childhood. But not really hence, no. Then one remembers that butterflies are some of the insects most sensitive to pollution, and as that same one lays on his back contemplating the sky, strangely evocative of the same childhood... one suddenly realises it's because its shade of blue is not the least bit gray.
You're fucked, you know. And your children, should they exist, will have three heads. And you'll think nothing of it, and neither will they. Thrice.
Huge, soft, white flowers, the largest I've ever seen, and such a strange buttery color...
The four are Fidel Castroni, Louis Armstrong, Julio Cortazar and a TV derp whose name I forget. Cona something or the other.
"It's only funny until someone loses a nipple!"———
- Castron is "bowl" in Romanian, and much funnier than the original. So there. [↩]