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FLUXORAMA Translation
FLUXORAMA Translation
FLUXORAMA Translation
By
Jô
Bilac
Amanda
Monday.
I
woke
up.
It
took
me
almost
twenty
seconds
to
notice
that
I
had
lost
my
hearing
completely
.
1.
2.
3.
4.
5.
6.
7.
8.
9.
10.
11.
12.
13.
14.
15.
16.
17.
18.
19.
Total
silence.
Not
a
peep.
Nothing.
I
woke
instinctively.
I
usually
get
up
before
seven.
The
silence
of
the
alarm
clock
denounced
its
uselessness
from
then
on.
Like
a
number
of
other
now
useless
sounds,
whose
exile
from
my
home
I
only
came
to
realise
because
of
Emilyn,
who
would
visit
me
that
afternoon.
And
I
was
not
willing
to
raise
suspicion
about
my
sudden
deafness.
Emilyn
is
dear
and
attentive.
But
it
is
worth
mentioning,
she
has
the
terrible
habit
of
sticking
her
nose
in
things
that,
definitively,
do
not
concern
her.
She
would
ask
me
a
thousand
questions
that
I
would
not
be
willing
or
even
know
how
to
answer.
She
would
say
that
it’s
the
fault
of
coca
cola
or
my
complete
lack
of
attention
to
the
traffic.
She
would
convince
me
to
consult
Walter
with
his
ambiguous
theories,
seen
through
a
dubious
prism.
Or
would
immediately
force
me
to
sue
the
cosmetic
industry
for
the
lack
of
clarity
in
their
instructions
.
She
would
tell
me
a
few
far
away
cases
of
similar
illnesses
or
would
start
to
cry
compulsively,
staining
the
covers
of
my
couch
with
her
hysterical
tears.
She'd
say
that
the
culprit
was
my
mother,
who
always
felt
guilty
for
blaming
me
for
the
Christian
guilt
I
inherited
from
her
outsourced
guilt.
Or
that
the
major
culprit
was
really
the
trans
fat
consumed
without
fear,
which,
despite
not
having
anything
to
do
with
the
story,
is
always
the
killer
at
the
end.
No.
I
thought
it
wasn’t
a
good
idea
to
allow
Emelyn
to
discover
my
interesting
state.
Intriguing.
(I
think
it’s
better)
Not
interesting.
Intriguing.
So
Emelyn
has
a
tongue
that
doesn’t
fit
in
her
mouth
and...
I
don’t
know....
I
felt
lazy.
So,
I
carried
on
my
day
as
on
a
day
of
another
day.
Everything
carried
on
with
the
same
appearance.
In
the
same
place.
There.
The
same.
TV
OK.
Fridge
OK.
Bedside
book
OK.
Keys
OK.
Tomato
OK.
Pliers
OK.
Antiseptic
OK.
Cuticle
OK.
Double
chin
OK.
Fish
in
the
fish
tank
OK.
Coat
hanging
on
the
door
OK.
Gas
bill
OK.
Bathroom
lamp
OK.
White
clothes
separated
from
the
red
OK.
National
Insurance
Number
OK.
Two
cups
of
sugar
and
one
of
milk
OK.
The
grass
is
always
greener
on
the
other
side
OK.
Europe
is
increasingly
expensive
OK.
Return
the
films
before
Friday
OK.
Car
Pooling
on
Thursday
OK.
Cushion
OK.
Picture
frame
OK.
Open
window
OK.
Ceiling
OK.
Ground
OK.
Everything
OK.
Everything
everything
everything
everything
everything
everything.
OK.
OK
as
always.
But
now...
Now...
it
looked
like
a
painting.
There.
In
the
same
place.
The
same.
But
as
if
in
a
painting.
If
I
had
more
knowledge
of
fine
arts
I
could
say
by
whom.
But
from
memory
I
just
remember
the
most
obvious
ones.
And
I
think
that’s
not
the
case.
Picasso
,
Van
Gogh
or
Matisse
don’t
inspire
anything
around
here.
No...
This
soundless
landscape
has
colours
that
are
not
used
anymore.
But
they
have
their
own
charm.
Why
yes,
I
believe
that
charm
and
politeness
are
fundamental
for
a
good
social
interaction.
The
external
silence
amplified
the
volume
of
my
thoughts.
And
although
I
wasn’t
any
longer
able
to
hear
the
sound
of
my
own
voice,
it
was
inside
my
head,
loud
and
clear.
Very
clear
and
absolute.
I
confess
that
at
a
given
moment,
I
was
in
doubt
whether
it
was
really
the
tone
of
my
voice,
since
–
before
-‐
I
had
never
noticed
or
fixed
my
thoughts
on
such
sound
analysis.
The
thoughts
are
mine,
as
well
as
my
red
hair.
However,
the
voice...
Well,
I
cannot
positively
say
(with
a
commitment
to
the
truth)
that
the
voice
is
mine.
It
is
a
deep
and
feminine
voice,
yes.
It
could
perfectly
be...
But
who
knows...
At
least
it's
a
pleasant
voice.
And
since
we're
together
–
I
don’t
even
know
exactly
for
how
long
–
we
have
at
least
this
to
our
advantage.
The
empathy.
I
like
it.
I
don’t
know
if
it
necessarily
likes
me.
I
digress.
I
have
this
gift.
Emilyn
is
my
husband’s
cousin.
It
was
through
her
that
I
met
him.
Lucio.
My
husband.
Air
steward.
Travels
a
lot.
Me
alone.
Jobless.
Foreign.
Emilyn
friend.
Without
occupation.
Daily
visit.
Four
in
the
afternoon.
A
thousand
bits
of
news.
"I,
I,
I."
Etc.,
etc.
Enough
already
to
understand
it,
right?
I
did
a
quick
rehearsal
to
receive
Emilyn
without
giving
away
my
disability.
I
wanted
to
be
sure
of
its
origin
before
making
it
public.
So
far,
I
limited
myself
to
play
acting.
(which,
in
a
way,
I
did
very
well)
Hello
All
fine.
The
usual...
-‐
Smile
and
feign
interest
-‐
How
wonderful.
That’s
good.
Exactly.
-‐
Cross
my
legs,
drum
fingers
on
knee
-‐
You’re
so
daring.
Sure.
What
a
pity.
Really...
Fantastic.
-‐
Laugh
out
loud
tilting
head
backwards
-‐
It’s
a
lie!
Oh,
Emilyn!
What
nonsense...
Go
ahead!
It
is
not
so
difficult
to
deceive
Emilyn.
She
speaks...
Speaks...
Speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
speaks
(my
god,
how
she
talks!)
and
talks
and
talks
and
talks
and
talks
and
talks
and
breathes
and
drinks
a
glass
of
water
and
goes
to
the
bathroom
and
drinks
a
coffee
and
nibbles
a
snack
and
goes
back
to
speak
speak
speak
speak
speak
speak
(I’m
tired)
oh...
speak...
The
biggest
drawback
would
be
to
guess
the
exact
time
of
her
arrival.
She
always
comes
around
four
o’clock.
So
I
placed
myself
at
the
spyhole
and
stayed
stuck
there,
waiting...
She
arrived.
Drank
coffee.
Smiled.
She
spoke
for
about
three
whole
hours.
I
stayed
there.
Watching
her
speak.
Which
wasn’t
so
new
to
me,
to
be
honest.
After
all,
I
never
actually
heard
what
Emilyn
said.
With
the
passing
of
time,
she
had
become
repetitive
and
I
limited
myself
to
staying
there,
with
my
interjections
between
one
pause
and
another.
But
now,
deaf,
I
no
longer
counted
with
the
sonority
of
her
shrill
voice
that
I
got
used
and
(I
swear!)
I
even
grew
fond
of
it
as
if
of
a
private
mantra.
Although
I
did
not
pay
attention
to
anything,
there
was
musicality
in
that
rambling
sound:
haudhuidhbx
hehehhxhn
hhwewejxmexj'
the
mcnhbdv
fwexq5rqop.
The
silence
forced
me
to
fixate
on
Emilyn.
And
I
did.
Without
a
mantra
to
send
me
to
some
place
on
the
planet.
I
fixated
on
every
gesture,
expression,
imagining
her
convoluted
adventures
that
she
never
tired
of
telling.
Never
before
had
I
been
so
attentive.
I
remembered
the
day
I
saw
a
cat
in
the
middle
of
the
street,
dying.
It
was
dying
in
agony
on
the
tarmac,
after
the
impact
of
a
car.
It
stayed
like
that,
with
a
mute
expression.
Convulsed.
Wanting
to
understand.
I
observed,
of
course,
the
cat
dying.
It
lasted
about
five
seconds.
Its
mouth
ajar,
as
if
it
wanted
to
release
something,
maybe
a
scream.
Its
eyes
unbalanced
on
its
face,
sliding
from
one
side
to
the
other,
looking
for
a
fixed
point.
The
dislocated
neck,
turning
the
head
onto
a
heavy
pendulum,
coagulating.
The
paws
in
spasms,
that
were
undone
without
haste,
in
a
numbness
full
of
anguish.
That
body
that
struggled
slowly,
clinging
to
the
five
seconds
left
to
him.
(1.
2.
3.
4.
5.)
Soon
afterwards,
there
was
nothing
else
there.
It
was
just
a
dead
cat.
Inert.
Empty
of
any
sense.
Emilyn
was
a
dying
cat.
With
her
mouth
ajar.
Searching
for
a
fixed
point.
Emilyn
became
much
more
interesting
after
that.
A
week
later,
Lucio
arrived
from
his
trip
as
he
usually
did.
He
woke
me
with
a
French
kiss.
It
was
at
that
exact
moment
that
I
realized
that
I
had
totally
lost
my
taste.
I'm
in
analysis.
I
don’t
know
if
one
thing
has
anything
to
do
with
the
other.
I
had
spent
a
quiet
week,
not
overdoing
it,
hoping
that
one
day,
upon
waking,
my
hearing
would
have
returned
to
its
original
place.
I
retraced
my
steps,
I
reviewed
my
food.
But
continued
being
deaf,
now
with
the
addition
of
the
lack
of
taste
in
my
mouth.
I
didn’t
want
to
alarm
him.
He
had
just
arrived
from
a
tiring
trip
through
the
Mediterranean
and
he
deserved
a
rest,
without
the
weight
of
my
days
falling
on
his
little
blond
head.
We
had
breakfast
together.
I
managed
very
well,
pretending
to
listen
to
what
he
said.
Because
I
might
actually
be
listening.
By
other
means.
But
I
actually
am.
Lucio
soundless.
Maybe
it’s
difficult
to
understand
what
I
just
said,
but
it's
the
honest
truth.
What
I
have
in
front
of
me
is
a
set.
A
set
of
smiles
and
glances.
Gorgeous.
Lucio
is
beautiful...
He
has
a
dimple,
here.
And
my
reading
of
this
set
comes
to
me
as
a
sound.
And
recognition
is
so
immediate
that
I
am
even
able
to
tell
if
he
finds
the
coffee
bitter
or
weak.
But
I
don’t
resist.
Lucio
suggests
to
my
mouth
a
world
of
flavours
that
I
keep
imagining.
And
imagining
is
as
limitless
as
to
all
my
guesses...
Because
of
this,
my
breakfast
was
redimensionised.
It
was
multiplied
like
a
kaleidoscope
of
taste
and
the
jelly
that
trickles
between
my
teeth
now
gains
possibilities...
We
went
to
lunch,
me,
Lucio
and
some
friends.
All
very
animated.
Many
laughs.
(Without
sound.)
Lots
of
food.
(Without
flavour.)
But
I
didn’t
worry
about
anything.
Because
the
greatness
of
everything
was
coming
to
me
by
other
means.
Apparently,
the
effort
I
made
in
seeming
deeply
attentive
to
the
matters
that
surrounded
me
in
the
last
week
has
made
me
an
extremely
sociable
and
pleasant
character.
I
noticed,
with
some
curiosity,
a
complete
difference
in
the
receptiveness
of
Lucio’s
friends.
Emilyn
was
there
and
gave
me
such
a
strong
hug
that,
for
a
few
seconds,
I
thought
I
had
dislocated
my
spine!
She
was
more
elated
than
ever
and,
with
teary
eyes,
she
secretly
passed
me
a
note
during
lunch.
Discreetly,
I
read
the
writing:
"Our
conversations
have
been
enlightening
and
decisive.
They
make
me
reflect
upon
the
direction
my
life
has
been
taking
my
and
the
choices
I
have
been
making.
Your
words
fill
me
with
optimism.
I’m
glad
to
be
able
to
count
on
with
such
a
dear
friend
in
such
difficult
times.
I
ask
only
that
you
don’t
say
anything
to
Lucio.
You're
adorable."
From
across
the
table,
she
smiled
at
me.
I
smiled
back.
What
else
could
do,
since
I
had
no
idea
what
she
might
be
saying>
But
it
was
right
then
that
I
realized...
My
disability
made
me
smile
all
the
time.
I
punctuated
my
days
with
smiles.
I
found
in
a
simple
action
(smiling)
a
powerful
weapon
for
infallible
communication.
And
so
I
started
to
eat,
taste,
chew,
drink,
kiss,
try,
experiment,
ruminate,
absorb,
lick,
suck,
bite...
…all
this
smiling
...
So....
And
so...
it
became
so
automatic
that
it
gained
sincerity.
Seriously!
I
did
not
pretend
anything
else.
The
smile
came
as
an
immediate
response
to
my
oral
expression.
And
eyal
expression
also.
I
do
not
know
if
that
word
exists:
eyal.
But
I
don’t
smile
with
my
mouth
only,
but
mainly
with
my
eyes,
in
distinct
variations
of
course,
but
all
my
face
smiles.
Any
person’s
face
smiles
as
a
whole.
But
I
have
the
impression
that
mine
smiles
more.
I
don’t
know
exactly
why.
I
digress...
Oh,
yes!
I
was
very
disturbed
by
Emilyn’s
note.
Lovely.
I
had
become,
from
one
hour
to
another
(in
a
short
time
scale)
a
lovely
person.
Not
that
I
had
been
abject
before,
abhorrent,
despicable,
even
boring.
No.
I've
always
been
very
interesting
within
the
confine
of
my
good
manners
and
predictability.
But
now
I
had
become
lovely.
Lovely.
Lovely
for
turning
my
ear
into
a
potty
and
my
mouth
into
a
toilet
bowl.
Lovely
for
my
harmlessness.
Lovely
for
being
all
smile.
I'm
Lovely.
That
did
not
spare
me
from,
the
week
after,
completely
losing
my
sense
of
smell.
I
understood
the
game
and
did
not
find
it
funny
in
the
slightest.
Is
this
the
dynamic?
For
what?
I
felt
like
crying
at
that
time.
I
tried.
No
tears.
The
whole
face
twisted.
No
tears!
And
a
pain
here,
a
shapeless
mass,
growing
in
my
chest,
making
my
breathing
heavy
and
painful.
And
no
tears.
With
great
effort
I
made
my
eyelashes
damp.
I
got
a
tear.
It
ran
down
with
difficulty.
The
unlikely
juice
of
a
dry
orange.
I
refer
to
my
eyes.
Two
dried
oranges.
No.
Two
sucked
oranges,
without
any
juice.
I
abandoned
the
idea
of
finding
a
doctor,
because
I
wished
less
and
less
to
know
whether
it
was
a
disease
or
which
illness
it
was.
Leaving
home.
Only
early
in
the
morning.
I
have
to
go
to
the
supermarket
very
early
to
avoid
encounters.
I
want
to
buy
soap.
I
don’t
want
it
any
more.
I
acquired
the
habit
of
eating
soap
(when
I
could
still
smell
things).
I
started
to
eat
whatever
I
took
as
having
an
attractive
aroma.
Chewing
soap
was
one
of
the
most
indescribable
sensations
that
I’ve
ever...
I
used
to
chew
for
hours...
I
didn’t
swallow,
of
course,
because
I'm
not
stupid
or
anything.
I
only
chewed
it,
like
gum.
Like
this.
With
my
mouth
open.
But
now....................................................................
A
desire
to
cry
that
won’t
go
away................................................................................................................................
I
never
thought
that
I
would
miss
soap
so
much.
Miss
everything.
And
my
love
for
people
kept
growing...
I
loved
them.
I
love.
With
all
the
terror
that
this
can
bring
and
all
the
beauty
too
because
life
is
full
of
beauty
and
me
here
feeling
like
crying
sometimes
because
of
emotion
really
or
because
of
this
thirst
that
won’t
stop
I
don’t
stop
feeling
thirsty
and
this
scares
me
so
much
and
gives
me
so
much
passion
because
passion
comes
in
a
startle,
when
we
least
expect
it
and
I
can’t
smell
the
smell
of
my
husband’s
hair
or
his
tooth
paste
filled
breath
or
his
common
cologne
or
the
nail
varnish
remover
I
use
or
a
baby’s
fleshy
cheek
or
a
sickening
and
intoxicating
sea
air
that
invades
my
living
room
and
then
the
urge
to
cry
comes
back
now
not
out
of
emotion
though
crying
is
an
indiscreet
facet
of
it
but
my
crying
is
snobbish
and
let
it
be
whichever
way
it
wants
to
be
and
let
people
be
as
they
want
to
be
even
if
pretending
because
I
cannot
stop
loving
them
because
they
are
beautiful
as
they
are
and
even
if
they’re
not
I
carry
on
loving
their
smiles
or
the
disgust
on
their
faces
that
please
me
more
and
more
and
I
would
be
silly
if
I
didn’t
love
them
because
only
love
justifies
this
madness
that
is
life
that
presents
itself
in
such
an
abrupt
and
often
cruel
way
and
I
am
a
quiet
woman
and
emotionally
open
and
even
having
lost
the
sense
of
touch
the
week
after
I
carried
on
being
uncorrupted
and
smiley
because
I
know
that
one
must
harden
without
ever
losing
tenderness
I
don’t
know
if
this
is
exactly
it
but
I'm
sure
that
there
is
a
reason
for
one
to
be
like
this
or
like
that
and
her
like
something
else
and
they
etc.
I
don’t
want
to
talk
about
this
anymore
the
desire
to
cry
often
comes
back
with
the
lack
of
the
sense
of
touch
I
don’t
realise
what
flows
from
my
eyes
and
if
I
start
crying
here
suddenly
everything
will
be
stained
and
I
will
look
horrid
and
I
will
only
realize
after
having
crossed
the
whole
avenue
wearing
a
clown’s
face
and
stay
like
this,
laughing
with
my
smudged
face
hugging
my
friends
who
I
stopped
seeing
so
long
ago
I
don’t
know
why
but
this
doesn’t
matter
now
because
every
time
I
meet
them
I
squeeze
them
as
if
I
could
dissolve
them
in
my
arms
so
strong
is
my
embrace
and
so
strong
is
my
desire
to
feel
them
so
strongly
all
this
takes
me
so
strongly
my
feelings
flood
through
me
so
strong
this
ache
in
my
chest
explodes
like
nuclear
napalm
so
affectionate
so
wanting
so
absolute
and
this
madness
that
is
love
and
the
New
Year
and
this
desire
to
stay
and
scream
in
the
street
and
say
I
love
you
anyway
and
that
you're
silly
not
to
love
like
me
and
not
to
believe
that
love
is
so
much
greater
than
any
pain
that
may
impose
itself
and
my
friends
who
I
love
so
much
and
who
love
their
families
and
their
co-‐workers
that
I
carry
on
hugging
them
every
time
I
meet
them
and
I
wanted
to
have
hugged
for
the
last
time
that
person
that
is
no
longer
here
with
me
and
never
will
be
and
I
now
wanted
him
to
be
to
hug
him
and
never
let
go
and
say
that
it
was
nice
and
that
it’s
a
pity
and
that
you’re
missed
and
that
stay
a
little
longer
don’t
go
away
and
that
life
is
like
that
and
maybe
I
can
hug
that
other
one
who
will
be
born
in
the
future
I
don’t
know
when
and
tell
him
with
all
sincerity
that
there
is
a
universe
that
fits
into
his
eyes
and
you
can
get
sad
sometimes
but
in
the
end
you'll
laugh
a
lot
more
and
we’ll
laugh
together
one
day
when
we
are
very
old
and
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
missing
everything
everything
everything
everything
everything
everything:
missing.
The
week
after
I
was
blind.
And
from
then
on
there
was
only
darkness.
Luiz
Guilherme
I'm
upside
down.
The
steering
wheel
sticks
through
part
of
my
thigh,
breaking
my
femur.
I
can’t
feel
my
feet,
though
a
feeling
of
warmth
covers
my
legs
completely
with
pins
and
needles.
My
shoulders,
dislocated,
produce
a
kind
of
depression
which
my
head
overhangs.
My
head
tilts.
My
fingers
are
crushed,
the
right
hand
ones
between
the
remnants
of
the
glove
compartment.
The
left-‐hand
ones
together
with
the
broken
door
latch.
I
can’t
move
my
neck
and,
because
of
that,
I
have
not
much
idea
of
what
might
be
around
the
whole
thing.
My
knee
presses
against
my
chest,
my
jaw
cracks
my
tongue
,
I
must
have
broken
some
four...
no...
five...
five
teeth...
five
bones...
no.
eight…
eight
bones...
I
broke
eight
bones...
bones...
…
eight
bones...
holy
shit
eight
bones...
holy
shit
Fuck...........
eight
bones
....
holy
shit
fuck
I’m
fucked
…that’s
crazy...
crazy...
crazy...
I’m
fucked.
Fuck...........
I’m
completely
fucked.
holy
shit....
We
are
one
now.
Me
and
my
Mustang.
The
symbiosis.
The
shapeless
and
concrete
mass,
a
third
entity.
If
I
could
yell
for
help:
I’d
yell.
If
I
could
straighten
my
coccyx
avoiding
this
poignant
jab:
I’d
straighten
it.
If
I
could
drink
a
shot
of
brandy
for
now:
I’d
drink
it.
(Not
beer,
nor
wine.)
Brandy.
Beer
I
find
vulgar,
silly
even,
without
imagination.
And
wine...
Wine
is
a
drink
of
priests
and
overdressed
seductive
people,
who,
even
without
you
having
asked,
pour
their
useless
knowledge
regarding
the
grape’s
origin,
and
the
grape’s
aroma,
and
the
grape’s
texture,
and
the
grape’s
liveliness
and
grapes
are
good
for
you,
and
grapes
are
a
holy
medicine,
and
grapes
are
not
cheap,
and
green
grapes
are
not
as
good,
and
grape
is
a
short
word,
easy
to
memorise,
and
There
is
the
Grape
Festival,
where
the
Grape
Queen
is
crowned,
and
tread
on
the
grapes,
and
eat
grapes
from
the
bunch,
and
grapes
make
raisins,
and
there
are
grape
arrangements,
and
there
are
grapes
in
the
mouth
of
the
Roman
emperor,
and
there
is
a
grape-‐coloured
lipstick,
the
fox
and
the
grapes,
etc.
etc.
etc..
Fuck:
it's
just
grapes.
Someone
warn
the
guy.
I
want
brandy.
I
want
you
naked
for
me.
OK.
It
wasn’t
exactly
like
this
I
pictured
I’d
die
one
day:
like
a
fly
stuck
in
the
web,
waiting
for
the
tarantula
to
lunge.
I'm
disappointed.
Not
mad
or
scared.
Disappointed
really.
It
sums
it
up.
At
some
point
in
life
we
all
think
about
it.
(about
death).
But
not
all
of
us
think
the
same,
let’s
make
it
clear.
I’m
strong.
That’s
why
I
think
of
it.
I
hate
the
weakness
that
consoles
itself
in
the
imagination...
in
the
hypotheses.
I'm
ready
for.
Thought
of.
I'm
on
my
way
to.
Which
doesn’t
prevent
me
in
the
slightest
questioning
how
it
happens.
I
love
my
Mustang.
Not
to
the
point
of
dying
with
it.
This
is
a
car.
Or
it
was,
half
an
hour
before.
I'm
much
bigger
than
a
car.
I’m
worth
much
more.
I
don’t
refer
to
this
car
specifically.
I
speak
of
cars
in
general.
And
I
speak
of
human
beings
in
general
too.
We
all
are
worth
much
more
than
a
car,
and
it
is
good
to
believe
this.
Even
if
one
is
told
otherwise
all
the
time.
And
by
that
logic
(that
I’m
worth
more
than
a
car)
I
don’t
find
it
fair
to
die
here.
This
way.
I
put
all
my
strength
into
the
reasons
for
life.
Because
of
this,
the
quality
of
my
death
concerns
me.
Indeed
I’ve
always
had
a
low-‐profile
and
silly
social
life.
But
I
never
considered
myself
a
stupid
man,
a
crude
man,
with
narrow
values,
scruffy,
awkward,
who
plays
dumb,
lazy,
who
does
not
take
responsibility,
no.
I
am
not
one
of
those
men
who
declares
the
bankruptcy
of
the
opportunities
of
life.
That
doesn’t
exist.
However,
I
expected
more
at
this
time.
You
know
when
you
expect
more?
(that
“more”
that
is
missing
to
make
up
an
amount)
So.
This
amount
is
far
from
its
fullness.
I
expected
more.
More
people
even,
I
must
say.
I'm
very
specific.
This
is
all
very
lonely.
A
plane
crash,
a
fire
in
a
building,
a
nuclear
bomb...
There’s
more
people.
You
share,
you
know?
You
scream
together.
(If
it’s
appropriate
to
scream).
You
don’t
feel
so...
so
alone.
So...
so...
so
shit,
really.
You
know
when
you
feel
shit?
A
little
shit
No!
Go
away,
thoughts
of
shit.
I
don’t
want
you
here.
Never
again.
I
refuse.
The
worst
thing
in
the
world
is
dying
depressed.
It’s
worth
dying
of
anger,
dying
of
fear,
die
laughing,
die
of
envy,
die
of
lust,
die
of
hunger,
freeze
to
death,
die
of
boredom,
die
of
embarrassment,
die
of
a
headache,
die
pierced
by
a
harpoon...
That
is
allowed.
Everything
is
allowed.
But,
depressed,
no.
What's
this?
Depressed?
And
wasn’t
life
good?
And
didn’t
you
do
exactly
what
you
wanted
to
do?
And
didn’t
you
enjoy
everything
till
the
last
drop?
And
wasn’t
it
good?
And
wasn’t
it
pleasant?
And
didn’t
you
come?
I
came.
Then,
why
depressed?
No.
Not
depressed.
Not
letting
off
fireworks,
either.
But
depressed.
Damn.
Not
depressed.
And
indeed
it’s
better
to
die
alone
than
having
to
die
beside
a
vile
person.
An
arsehole.
A
wanker
squeezing
your
hand
and
asking
for
your
forgiveness.
No.
Everything
happens
the
way
it
should
happen.
And
there
was
Isadora.
There
is
Isadora.
There
was.
Palpable
perfection
within
reach
of
one’s
sight.
I
want
/
wanted
/
will
always
want
Isadora
always
here
with
me
now.
Not
in
such
circumstances,
obviously.
Want
/
wanted
/
Will
always
want
to
bite
the
folds
of
her
thighs...
lick
her
pink
gums...
caress
her
feet,
at
her
feet...
Isadora...
turn
into
crumbs
so
I
can
suck
you
in
one
single
sigh.
Isadora.
My
tongue
in
your
ear
making
a
buzzing
sound:
let
it.
Isadora.
It
relieves
me,
to
think
of
you.
It
even
makes
me
horny.
It
turns
me
on.
I
need
to
stay
turned
on.
I
want
to
die
consciously.
Awake
to
the
last
second.
It
is
my
(the
last
second)
and
I
want
it.
I
insist.
I
won’t
give
it
up
so
easily.
This
second
is
mine.
I
would
masturbate
now
if
I
could.
But
it’s
not
the
case.
Thinking
is
already
good
enough.
Think
of
Isadora.
Think
that
I
had/
will
have
/
have
her
on
the
dimension
of
my
eyes.
1
gin
and
tonic
7
pints
3
micheladas
2
measures
of
Kovak
Vodka
29
cigarettes
1
coca
cola
to
regain
my
dignity
2
pieces
of
mint
gum
to
take
away
the
bad
breath
1
handful
of
roasted
peanuts
in
a
white
paper
cone
1
alexander
cocktail
just
to
remember
the
old
days
1
pina
colada
in
homage
to
modern
times
1
more
beer,
to
send
me
to
the
road
another
beer,
for
the
road
98
loud
laughters
5
pleasant
memories
2
reasons
to
leave
1
eagerness
to
see
you.
I’m
muddling.
It’s
muddled.
Fuck,
focus.
Isadora.
Stay.
Don’t
go
away.
Isadora.
Let
me
die
thinking
of
you.
I
don’t
want
Shangri
La.
I
don’t
care
about
being
friends
with
the
King.
I
only
care
about
you.
Shit.
A
taxi
driver
from
the
airport.
Get
out.
What
are
you
doing
inside
here?
Where’s
Isadora?
Come
back!
Miserable
creature.
Get
out.
….morally
devious
thing
who
offends
the
sublime
spectral
reference
in
my
dying
daydreams!
I
shall
heal
him,
I
shall
take
him
to
the
end,
I
shall
exhaust
him...
–
Shall…
shall…
shall…
get
out
of
there...
On
my
deathbed,
this
bastard
appears
in
my
thoughts!
I
do
not
deserve
to
die
with
this
bastard
taxi
driver
in
my
head
who
will
never
know
what
I
think
of
him
which
is
a
shame
because
I
am
/
was
/
will
always
be
pissed
off
with
this
bastard
thief
who
charged
me
90
bucks
from
the
airport
to
my
house
and
I
live
so
near
the
airport
and
he
robbed
me
and
said
he
did
not
belong
to
the
taxi
co-‐
operative
and
did
not
start
the
meter
and
I
tortured
/
torture
/
will
torture
myself
until
now
because
ultimately
I
felt
guilty
for
not
noticing
that
the
meter
wasn’t
on
and
I
stay
on
this
vibe
of
feeling
awful
about
other
people’s
lack
of
character
and
feeling
like
a
fool
and
looking
like
an
idiot
for
my
lack
of
attitude
but
the
son
of
a
bitch
robbed
me
and
I
want
to
think
that
he
needs
the
money
more
than
me
but
I
can’t
think
of
anything
else
apart
from
him
rotting
in
some
jail
with
some
guys
fucking
his
arse
and
then
I
get
scared
at
how
I’m
able
to
wish
such
evil
on
someone
who
only
robbed
me
of
50
quid
but
fuck
it
I’m
not
a
saint
and
full
stop.
Finished.
I
exhausted
it.
It’s
passed.
I’ve
forgiven.
That's
right,
moving
on.
My
head
is
yours
again
ISADORA.
:My
divine
party
of
untroubled
sweetness.
:my
carnivorous
devil
painted
in
gold.
:my
mine,
your
yours.
:My
first
wish
,
my
last
request.
It’s
finishing.
Fucking
breathe.
Don’t
drop
the
ball.
Breathe.
Breathe.
Yes.
How
many
fingers
are
there
here?
Thirty-‐three.
Breathe.
Breathe.
45
divided
by
14.
Think.
How
much
is
that?
Isadora
come
back
here
my
father
my
mother
my
grandmother
natalia,
cesar
breathe
breathe
Isadora
beauty
I'm
thirsty
breathe
breathe
it’s
cold
but
I’m
sweating
breathe
breathe
breathe
beatles
7
times
8?
How
much…
think...
turned
on...
isadora
breathe
id
number
7644132000-‐7
building
b
apartment
202
breathe
breathe
it’s
fine
it’s
fine
It’s
okay
that
life
is
short.
It’s
okay
that
there
is
a
gas
bill
due
on
the
20th.
It’s
okay
that
there
is
a
soufflé
leftover
that
will
go
off
if
not
eaten.
It’s
okay
that
I
was
upset
with
you
that
day.
It’s
okay
that
I
could
not
quit
smoking.
It’s
okay
that
you're
not
so
pretty
when
you
wake
up.
It’s
okay
that
you’ll
get
old,
fat
and
lose
your
memory.
It’s
okay
that
wanker
squeezing
my
hand
to
ask
for
forgiveness
in
the
final
hour.
It’s
okay
that
bastard
taxi
driver.
It’s
okay
that
you
did
not
see
me
that
time.
It’s
okay
that
I
didn’t
know
that
that
was
the
last
time
I
would
kiss
you.
It’s
okay
that
I
never
said
in
so
many
words
how
much
you
matter
to
me,
how
good
you
make
me
feel.
It’s
okay
that
that
phone
call
only
lasted
two
minutes.
It’s
okay
that
that
whole
immensity
of
your
smile
doesn’t
bright
my
days
anymore.
It’s
okay
that
that
was
so
good.
It’s
okay
that
you
hurt
me
sometimes.
It’s
okay
that
it
lasted.
It’s
okay
that
it's
you.
It’s
okay
that
I
got
you.
It’s
okay
that
I
cry
now.
It’s
okay
that
I'm
afraid.
It’s
okay
that
it’s
this
way.
It’s
okay...
okay...
Isadora....
okay...
I'm
here
(intense
light,
ambulance
siren,
human
voices
outside
the
head)________________
(São
Silvestre
Marathon
,
January
31st)
Valquíria
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?
Why
did
I
have
this
idea?