Cacaolat

Barcelona. Near the hotel, as I walk towards the sea on a warm morning in early January, i find this sign: 'Cacaolat'. It means nothing to me. At first I am struck by the yellow, then by the regular patterns surrounding the writing (that formed by the bricks on the wall and that of the metal fins above and below).

Immediately, when faced with scenarios like these, my perfect attention, my latent perfectionism whispers things in my ear which whispers in my ear subtle things like: 'if it must be full of horizontal lines, let them at least be per-fet-ta-men-te horizontal'. I generally obey in such cases: to satisfy him and give myself a break for a while.

That there is nothing perfect here at all, on closer inspection. Everything here is broken and then fixed. And that's fine.