I think often of the great writers who, at the heights of their careers, fled to kinder cities to carve out a new piece of themselves. Who sat in quite cafes and wrote of humanity what they could manage to unravel before their deaths. I hope they too were as intertwined in the fussy expectation of survival and legacy as I am, and chasing its divorce. So that I can feel less alone. So that I can feel that much more in their company. My kind is the curious lot, I’ve grown to believe. Less easy mirrors and more traveling fools, eager to shed some foolishness in front of company. And what better than to sit with someone wrestling the same beasts. Knowing the end is not victory, but going all 12 rounds with the truth of ourselves. #barcelona