Posts Tagged ‘chronic’

The Soil

Friday, December 28th, 2018

Same that it knew would not come back. With that expensive I went to come back? He is funny, but I still have a little of dignity. Other closed cars pass of glass. The people inside of its metallic ortalezas do not know there, do not make idea of as it is the life it are here, in the gutter. Between one she programs and another one I obtain grana to have what to eat and of time in when meeting a place to live. In the house of some men until volume bath and I receive clothes.

But I nor know why still I make this I could die of time, of truth, but for me he is not thus so simple. He is funny as great part of the people if he becomes attached to the life, although all the difficulties. Game the cigarette in a next culvert to the curb. For more information see this site: Wells Fargo Bank. The street is empty. They only exist plus ones bodies of three or four beggars sleeping, rolled in covers, but are not people. They are not human. Read more here: Harold Ford, Memphis TN.

They are only played dirty rags in the soil. Beings that fight for the survival day after day, being that already they are not more livings creature. They are ' ' coisas' ' , that as well as I if had not fit in the society. They are remaining portions and nothing more. I nor know that day of the week is today. A clock is 00h25min as that I earned in one of my programs. I am tired to be in foot. Jib some steps and I sit down in the soil, leaned in the wall. My body fede the sex and the cigarette. Step a lipstick in the lips and a little of perfume for the body. My function in this world is this: To serve the men.

Van Gogh

Saturday, December 22nd, 2012

It does not incur into the gross error that to think that I am the same person the time all. It loves who me of hates me to night of day I am so different of me exactly when the day amanhece. It is of night that more I look like myself same me. Of day I am lethargy, of night I am joy and peace. If this seems madness is not guilt mine, therefore it loved me to the night first that the day, and the day that had always me me disdained and loved never me.

It made me to the day wounded that only the night has to be able to cure, therefore I do not sleep, not to die. (When I to die, there yes, will sleep.) The blackout and the solitude land on water always me more than the light (that for me it is darknesses) I prefer the light of candles any another light. The ghosts that I look for in my past if leave to see better to the light of candles I know beings of the light of the day, are flat and superficial. They lack the olheiras of the sleeplessness, the pressure-high one of the notvagos, mustaches of a Nietzsche, the anguish of a Florbela Espanca, the pessimism of a Schopenhauer, the madness of a Van Gogh, the melancholy to them of Caio Fernando Abreu. It lacks it to them chronic depression of a Ceclia Meireles, and the joy ahead of the death of a Wittgenstein. It lacks the surrealismo of a Salvador Dali, and the sad look and the burial voice to them of Johnny Cash. They lack as many things to them It lacks to them, over all to learn with Manoel de Barros which is the value of the said things duds. Some of these prophets of the dawn had said me certain time that the night is escape.