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About Madrid

So, I’m strollin’ down this dodgy street, wood dust still on my boots, and I see her—red heels, skirt shorter than my temper. I’m like, “Well, this could be fun!” Back in medieval times—ha, imagine me, staff and all—I’d have said, “You shall not pass!” to any creep messin’ with her. But nah, she’s got this smirk, like she knows I’m a sucker for a thrill. Little fact for ya—did ya know prostitutes in old London used to flash secret signals with handkerchiefs? Wild, right? She’s givin’ me that vibe, all mysterious.

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I quikrly call it my “thought nest.” Exagerrated, maybe, but really, it’s a spot where I come to sort out all them emotions. Realy, it's where I let my guard down and dig deep into the souls I serve. Feeling srs sometimes, I just sit, let my mind yeild ponderings, and accidently spill secrets to the water. Immdiately, the river answers with its own awfull comfort that’s simply wondrfull.

The 'horribilis' week on the Cercanías trains ends with passengers walking on the track