Gee… I see new templates; I deploy template changes, I love computering stability -which is such an incongruence- Anyway. March madness, said I.
A filthy but transparent smell gushes out of every seweage system. We run the airport runway’s sidepath when the first blow of warm weather hits my face. March 2008 is a spring starter as for Madrid and surroundings. This 9 mile run takes me through green urban isles (painted, striped, painted) and brown dusty single tracks (dirt, dirt, condoms, kleenex and dirt) on my way to peripheral office spaces. Me go to work. Geeza. March brings home our first 20ºs, shorts and singlets, and dozens of excuses leading to madness.
Last week I entered a terribly designed 50km race at our capital city. Scrambling at this time of races with the amazing touch, scenarios of beauty or glimmering ultra trails, we went back to the official races of the 70s, lack of resources, deficient chipping time, yuck. March just begun, there is an outing to jog the last 25km of Madrid Marathon. But I live 18 further away so, imagine the end of the day. March I heppen to contact, well, she happens to contact me, Maria, somebody that has followed my writings from the shade of the Internet readers. She got to reckon she’d been reader from the very pristine times of the spanjaard phenomenon -should this role fail to crash, please abandon the plane following the emergency lines.
March madness is a single elimination tournament held each spring featuring 65 -this year- college basketball teams in the United States. March madness is also my sister telling her employers she is pregnant. It is also a cracking decollete and a stumbling week with one of my twins at hospital because of pneumonia. MM. Get it freakin’ mad. This imperial madness has brought Modigliani to our eyes. If you get to come to Madrid, let your senses to Amedeo, though March madness is gone.