Madrid (on a postcard)

The streets, each one is like the alleys I would venture out of my way to find in American cities.
Every cafe has the ‘right’ vibe, so I can settle on none; instead I am drawn to the Flamenco cobbler and the side street with Bach gently playing from a piano on some second or third story flat.
I am eating Indian food alone next to a man eating Indian food alone.
Pan handlers are jugglers at red lights and musicians playing musical glasses.
Writers drink beers in cafes that are half libraries.
Everything is wood and gold or velvet and dimly lit, and it inspires nothing more than to be with you more and to live fully and fearlessly- choosing brave paths over illusions of security, or comfort.
Has the matador knelt down suddenly having seen his reflection in the red cape?  His blood in the eyes of the bull?