There doesn't seem to be anything to write.

Earlier, when I was drinking coffee, I thought there was something to write.

The television is on: an American-style crime series called Hombres de Paco, which my roommate is watching while eating an assortment of deep-fried foods.

I'm hoping to sleep tonight. I received an unexpected email requesting my presence at the university tomorrow. All I know is that it has something to do with my tuition money, for which I was certain I'd turned in all the necessary documents.

I walked out of town again today, arriving at a small neighborhood of austere one-story houses with tiled walls and patterned blankets hanging in front of the doors. The streets were nearly empty, bare concrete trailing into fields dotted with wildflowers. A fence enclosing one of the fields had been mended by the a rusted front panel of an ancient kitchen stove.

This weekend: Madrid.