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“A mere trickle of blood escapes the toreador’s shoulder. It is concise and without splatter, just as the man’s signature must have been. The toreador’s right hand covers his heart, and all hairs—even those of the eyebrows—remain unmussed. His back flat on the arena floor, the toreador faces upwards with closed eyes, ready to greet God. To his side, a cape—pink, like a massive petal.” From “How All Men Should Die, and How Some Men Do Die”