quiçá segunda, porventura não

all things are of the same value, because
we are millionaires and all of them things have died.
all landscapes are useless when you look only inward.
you crumple my face behind the library, on the white glass-tiled wall, I [so] enclose myself in your body till we became plastic, a patterned shower curtain that one looks and fails to retain focus, my fingers, my drawings, my friends, we are all little white sheep shorn in the middle of the night and we'll die in the cold.
I get out of bed, take the breakfast that my mother prepares in my mouth, from the outside to the inside, from the inside to the outside; hurricane in my stomach, baby. I go down, then round the corner, "are you my illegitimate friend?", I think, as I look at the crystal shop. The saleswoman comes out overtrowing the balcony, takes me by hand and says: 'how different you are', and I answer with the stars and lacan, and I ask ' did you know that the more dry the weather becomes, more the ipê flowers blossom?', she drags her neck in a negative that leads her head in the ground. I think it must be despair, hers or the ipe's, that the things are like this. the things, not I, despite something.
I ask the attendant of the butcher's shop for "a newspaper, please, that is not humid, yesterday's or yesterday yesterday's" he gives me the our things are our things from 2008 and I'll arrive at the beach, seat down in a crystalline sand floor oposed to the brute sea-flakes. the breeze roars, inflaming my face, and I cross the street again, forget about the desert, look the mountains ahead, and at the top of the pasture is seen more than a shrub, an ox mooing that the humidity crumbles mussels.

(tradução gratuitamente elaborada pela maison michê, pelo próprio o fórum da américa-assessoria de imprensa- num momento de generosidade pelo qual estaremos eternamente enlevados. como diria millôr fernandes.)

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