the sun has passed its midday point and now resumes its slow slide to the waiting horizon. i lay asleep, turning every once in a while to loosen the knots brought about by prolonged slumber. i work nights, you see, and gather my rest at a time when most people are up and about realizing their dreams. but this lonely sojourn was not destined to be uninterrupted.

little by little the room in which i sequestered myself began to change. the air became stifling. i thought it was the normal afternoon heat that usually afflicts the tropics. i thought wrong. it was the hot, dry atmosphere that one finds in the middle of the open desert. a wind came, but it did no more than carry away the moisture from your body. the linoleum floor adopted the consistency of coarse sand. it was now brittle to the touch. the gentle humming from the electric fan came to me as the muted whisperings of a crowd in anticipation of something. my room was transformed into the plaza de toros of madrid.

the matador came, resplendent in his costume. he wore a black tunic inlaid with silver stripes. his tight-fitting trousers also carried the same design. he carried a muleta in his right hand and with a flourish raised it to his lips as he entered the arena. with him came three banderilleros, their outfits not as gaudy yet would still merit more than a passing glance. they made the rounds of the ring, which made the murmurs of the crowd rise to a new height. the presidente stood up from his box, and dropped the key. the fight begins.

this corrida was different from most. as it is, the matador came to the bull, and not vice versa. the banderilleros struck first, piercing the thick hide of the bull with their implements. i, an unwitting participant, found myself in the place of the bull. i raised the electric fan's lever one notch, and it was as if by my actions i spurred the crowd to new heights of excitement. but still they came on, relentless in their attack. i thrashed and turned, to no avail. the banderillas stuck to me like meat hooks. eventually i wearied myself and stayed motionless. resistance is futile.

seeing that all was in readiness, the matador rushed in. he raised his muleta and plunged it into the soft flesh of my back. the pain was exquisite, and it followed me into oblivion.

damned mosquitoes. remind me to close the windows before i sleep.