Breakfast in Catalonia/Spanish Robbin on a bike trip to Málaga

I'm usually not the one to easily fall for hyperbolic statements and dialectical traps of the like, but sometimes I wonder what would happen if Robbin grew just a tiny bit more wholesome than he already is, just a little lovelier. What would become of this world if we added some more sugar and spice to an already perfectly seasoned mix? Is there a possibility of that not turning out well? Would Earth implode? Would Robbin explode? Would we reach peak humanity and subsequently start dying on a massive scale? Can people ever be "too good"? Is "too good" too scary? Is everything that is worth doing worth overdoing? Isn't it obvious that it is? Why isn't it? When did having a pretty fucking well-rounded brain become so subversive? When did excellence turn poor and underground? When did Robbins stop being rulers? When did the best of us lose faith in the rest of us? Stop this life please, I'm getting off here.

All pictures taken between 11th and 12th of August 2017 around an average small town, the FGC and downtown Barcelona, Spain. Special thanks to Guillermous, and extra special thanks to Robbin for not only being an American communist, but also an example to our whole race. He also looks exactly like his mother and owns the most unreliable pink Japanese bike in the world, which just adds to his overall awesomeness. 

Well I always play russian roulette in my head

"Yes'm," The Misfit said as if he agreed. "Jesus shown everything off balance. It was the same case with Him as with me except He hadn't committed any crime and they could prove I had committed one because they had the papers on me. Of course," he said, "they never shown me my papers. That's why I sign myself now. I said long ago, you get you a signature and sign everything you do and keep a copy of it. Then you'll know what you done and you can hold up the crime to the punishment and see do they match and in the end you'll have something to prove you ain't been treated right. I call myself The Misfit," he said, "because I can't make what all I done wrong fit what all I gone through in punishment." 

There was a piercing scream from the woods, followed closely by a pistol report. "Does it seem right to you, lady, that one is punished a heap and another ain’t punished at all?"  

"Jesus!" the old lady cried. "You've got good blood! I know you wouldn't shoot a lady! I know you come from nice people! Pray! Jesus, you ought not to shoot a lady. I'll give you all the money I've got!" 

"Lady," The Misfit said, looking beyond her far into the woods, "there never was a body that give the undertaker a tip." 

There were two more pistol reports and the grandmother raised her head like a parched old turkey hen crying for water and called, "Bailey Boy, Bailey Boy!" as if her heart would break. 

"Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead," The Misfit continued, "and He shouldn't have done it. He shown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then it's nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn't, then it's nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best way you can, by killing somebody or burning down his house or doing some other meanness to him. No pleasure but meanness," he said, and his voice had become almost a snarl.

Excerpt from A Good Man Is Hard to Find, by Flannery O'Connor

All pictures taken at Hamburger DOM (Hamburg, Germany) between 18th and 20th March 2016. Inspired by Tom Waits' Blood Money (2002), the play written by Georg Büchner he wrote the album for, Woyzeck, and A Good Man Is Hard to Find (1955), Flannery O'Connor's short story that titled its last song.

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Good bye to a little man who, at least for the last 30 years, could only run a competition in bigness with himself. His stilettos were so high above us that we could not even see him at times. Sleep well Prince, your Texas blow dry and most-awkward-love-scene-ever in Purple Rain (1984) will haunt me for ever, but let's go crazy.