Secret Diary: Do NOT Read This!
Inside the mind of an American in Spain.
DIARIO DEL CAPITÁN: 30.01.2026
Sit on the floor by rain-patter and windy creaks of the balcony. The North Atlantic says ‘good morning.’ Take a deep breath. Listen to the coffee maker huff and puff, and cha-cha-chatter. Hear the scurried tip-taps to the elevator. It burrs to life. You think they’ll make it on time, wherever they’re going.
You don’t know who they are. They make you proud. That’s… okay?
Honk — extended return honk — you imagine a driver. Your doppelgänger? You press the back of your head to the cool of the balcony’s sliding door. Revealed: an image of a mirage of a shadow of a person you once cut off in traffic. Good job.
Hey, shouldn’t you get off your ass?
Pour coffee into a tempered glass mug. Why is all glass tempered here? Is it from France? It is strange. Cathartic. As dream logic penetrates the overcast gleam in the window to your left, you watch steam dissipate. A wizened evildoer, you stroke your cold, humidified whiskers. Hoo-hoo!
That person you knew, with all of the tempered glassware? Hereditary? Maybe. Staring into a void of bean fluid, you squint. Your blue blockers reflect in its depths.
Fuckery, fuck-a-dee doo.
The ringing staggers you momentarily. Comes and goes. Nobody hears it but you, except for those who hear it too. Peculiarities of seasonal wear and tear, they say. Then a marshmallow of a man yodels from an Alpine, snow-glazed ridge. What a diaphragm! (He is not real.)
Memories of commercials past?
Your wife says ‘hola.’ You call her ‘esposa.’ Ah, a warm embrace of bureaucratic formality. She is cotton. She is wool. Natural fibers, good-natured soul. Yours is hollow, and yet you poured coffee for her, too. What is it like, you wonder, to be a creature of the forest, elven as she?
Wish granted: she tells you of a dream. About China, and Grand Theft Auto. You would create a database of TikTok withdrawal symptoms, but for whose benefit? Goddamned communists.
Just kidding, but seriously.
You should get to work. Or should you take a walk? Walk… CAPITAL! Tempered glass. The Dalí Museum comes to mind. Melting clocks, Freudian fractalese. Mug. What about the mug? Do you know what was in the paint?
Reese here from Bebop Libre: I fucking knew it! You read the entire post, didn’t you? Even though it’s literally called “Secret Diary: Do NOT Read This!” Wow, way to respect boundaries. You read anybody else’s secret diary, lately? …Well, if you grew up in the Pacific Northwest in the 90s, rain would be your love language too. Add that to the list of reasons why I chose Galicia, okay?