21 de outubro de 2009

algo como 'minha baixa auto-estima é narcisismo'? credo, fantástico.

20 de outubro de 2009

O Jardim, Miró
o dia estava quase terminando, tudo estava tranquilo, mas eu lembrei de você mais uma vez, como a despedida da minha consciência para o sono.

19 de outubro de 2009

Força de vontade, velho; sério.

6 de outubro de 2009

é, pois é...

"Quero umas três horas pra ficar olhando sua tatuagem. Quer dizer, isso porque você não quer casar comigo."
Said the priest: either you like jesus or you like me.


and be cool and be happy.

4 de outubro de 2009

should you stay where you are?

Why don't you say, you know, you lie to me, that tomorrow you are thinking of drinking tea, and sharing all the things you couldn't speak when you should have? why don't you say that was the time, and by saying goodbye, you really meant I've got to go pick up my daughter at school but we could do this any other time? why don't you start and stop pretending, you start being demanding but with reason? why don't you leave your cell, you buy from me my awkward smell that you think is lovely? why don't you leave your sexual and sentimental toy, you tell the person to go and enjoy, and you'll learn how to love once more? why do you get used and you think you're not bruised by watching love walk and smile to you elsewhere? why do you fool yourself, you like me inside your shell and you spend time enjoying someone else? you should see what I have to give instead of writing and rewriting: i should stay here.

Reservado Carmenere de tempos

vinho forte, e não faz nenhum sentido. vinho para esquecer não saber que falta de sentido devo esquecer.

1 de outubro de 2009

I can't think. There is a feeling of death lingering in my tea. It's somewhat tart and unconfortable. It does not think It does not know I am tart and unconfortable.

And here comes Poe's knock on my window.
I'm a moth, a too inflamed butterfly - that's what moths are (they are inflamed with love, mainly) - and I stare with the corner of my eyes. It's really pleasant to have a cup on my moth hands. I am George Samsa. I cross my legs and stare like Holly Golightly and I am charming as hell. (That's why I keep on smoking.)
But I am alone and you stare at a hundred different earings trying to find love where you may, and lust where you will. And you will throw them away - with tea; because you are beautiful and you are vile. And I will throw mine away; because they have already composed my Cranach's work of Heaven and I don't desire them.
You're in the other side of town (you are small but I have good eyes), and I see there is no possibility of running into you even if I kill a hundred different trees that I see on my way.
I educate myself in every music style there is so I can love, and I love. I am now something the mirror flirts with, because it does not know, and sometimes I flirt with everything that walks.
(I got news of you dancing around town with your pack of disbelief.)
But still, back to me moth, two or three chinese girls of eight jump and dance in front of me
in this dim room for which i am paying, like persecuted animals with no food. They prey and I pray (and I prey too) so I can come up to heaven and observe your love from above. I can understand the full picture of this canvas and you do many things with love when you don't notice, and I am yours, it's a fact, and it's ok; I am resigned, you know?