My mind is a bull-fight, semi manifested. Half-realized and halfway through a lingering emotion, a hesitant atmospheric disturbance. The stadium is empty, but the perspiration of thousands of people still float. The enthusiastic screams craving blood, honour, courage; the craving for a childish narrative in which the bull represents evil, and the Matador represents the rebellious hero. The crowd knows such things don't exist. What they do know, however; is that somewhere between the

tête-à-tête

of the bull and the matador, exists a universality of understanding. An understanding that the crowd has defiantly given up on. So they do what we all do: They grasp at straws. But the crowd is not really there. And neither is the Matador, and neither are his assistants. There is only the smear of their bright, bourgeois garments dancing with exuberant flamboyance across the walls, in an obscure, enigmatic disobedience to black-line-confinement. The same distortion of form that occurs through the lens of a powerful drug; or the force of blunt pain.

The bull is adept with his horns, and their propulsion is fuelled by bovine testosterone. But his horns turn to papier-mâché, and the rage loses its direction, like when you try to escape some pursuer inside a nightmare.

And then: Revelation.

The amphitheatre is empty, there is no Matador, no enemy, no good, evil, no trouble or tranquility;
Only
Silence
Impotence

A confused bull, alone in it's thoughts, infinitely circling an empty arena, stabbing at a phantom.