F minor

I'm listening to Brahms, the Sonata in F minor, opus 120 number 1. I've never listened much to Brahms, but that may change, judging from this.

The sun is shining outside, reflecting off the walls of the building opposite mine, incidentally, a brothel, or something similar. There is a sign, hanging from a defunct balcony, which reads "Pinguino II" next to the stylized representation of a penguin. The balconies were once elegant, glassed-in with ornate iron work. The main balcony has a sort of crown on it, with little wrought-iron flourishes, and star-shaped panes of blue glass.

Walking down Calle Busquet, a block away, you can see the medieval part of the city in dramatic relief, but from my window all that's visible is the brothel, a crude mosaic of rooves and walls, a rusty television antenna, an apartment building on Calle de Sánchez facing towards the sun, and a large-enough patch of sky traversed at times by flocks of small, dark birds.