On the way to Valencia I see these windmills. I think of Don Quixote who I've never read and wish I had because then I'd know a good metaphor for futility. I think of Herzog's "Signs of Live" and how I too would like to be set off by these things, deranged and violent - the final straw that breaks my complacent back. But it's really too late anyway, a couple more days and they let me loose.