Espartaco

I had inadvertently put down some equipment on the altar that Espartaco had made in his hotel room in Pamplona, not quite as bad as Bernard Berenson extinguishing his cigar in the ashes of the Contessa's late husband, but not considered too good. I hope it was not my fault that he was gored in the knee later in the afternoon, luckier him than the torero that we were supposed to photograph who was killed by a dead bull, young and unlucky to have the final twitch of the bull send it's horn through his heart. Before the fight these bulls have a magnificent life, although if I return as a bull may it be to Kobi, where they are massaged and fed beer every day.

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