Day Eight

Today I wrote around 1500 words, which brings me back to pace, more or less, although I worry if I have confined myself to a quota rather than letting the words flow freely, or however one wants to describe that mumbo jumbo, but in any case I am moving again at the proper speed, which is all that matters.

The melancholy that I'd noted over the previous two days reached its apex today. I had a very strange and unsettling experience around dinnertime, in which my will weakened to the point of paralysis, and I was overcome with a sensation very close to Sartre's nausea, although perhaps lacking the philosophical effects. In my mind it is a long roiling drama, but for the blog I will just say that I was incapable of doing so much as sitting down at a restaurant. I wandered the streets of Barcelona, gnawed by hunger (I had eaten nothing that day), tortured by my own self. It is pertinent to note that the only thing that anybody does in this city is eat at restaurants. To be unable to sit down at a restaurant in Barcelona is to be the gravest sort of invalid. But I could not do it, even as I had fifty euros to spend in my pocket, and as my only concern in the entire world at that moment was to have something to eat. 

The whores in this city come out early, at around five o clock, well before the sun goes down. They attract your attention by blowing kisses at you. They can blow the loudest kisses I have ever heard. The sound echoes off the buildings.

I think I grow tired of this place. I leave for Madrid in two days.