If I were a swift, a swift among swifts, I’d go to sleep in a trice. When a swift falls asleep it keeps on flying: to heal its wounds, the air a salve. Beating its wings to throw
In the Basque Country, there used to be a saying, or a joke, or possibly just a metaphor, to the effect that, no matter where you wanted to go, all trains went to Madrid first. Mad
