Castrated Bulls

                  In the south of Holland thirty years ago I saw castrated bulls on the top of a hill. Each with the
saddest of eyes. One then another would start a charge. Three, four steps down the hill and then they would
stop.
                  Sometimes I gather myself, gather myself. A faint memory of an emotion, a faint sense of who I
once was. Three quick steps. And I stop. I feel the most horrible sadness in my eyes.