Last time I was in London I met a girl in a gallery, her first name was not Mallory but fire, surname burning pyre. She manipulated gravity in a way that had no remedy collapsing all existing harmony forcing me down, yet on a first round, even today I’m striving to come around. With my eyes flooded with enticing blood I gave away what I have always wanted to, at first gaze, first chance, first light. I returned with nothing…but a link, cold and far from a hot and subtle wink. The white rabbit I followed flowing a message in the ever awaiting vacuum… bringing back no message…no message…no message. Microsoft did the rest and, a couple of days before my birthday, Ms Fire, Burning Pyre, kindly offered some words, maybe not of the finest logic, but definitely some words, maybe not wise words, but still words…vanishing as unpredictably as a message from the dead. My question is (can’t believe I actually got a question):
Do I need to have a question whatsoever?
I’m still trying to decipher half of the counted words Ms. Fire employed – or as Eddie would put it: “We have mechanics working on it”. Undoubtedly I’m an awkward individual sharing a logical processor and a passionate devotion for arts. I’m the sort of person that falls in love in a second, exempting the thorough ordeal most people would submit the ones they might eventually love – given a certain number of clicked boxes.
The thing goes as follows:
Why the hell am I writing in English se estas duas pessoas, claramente com um pensamento muito próprio e dilatado, provêm da mesma nação ?! E porque raio sinto uma barragem entre nós, como não sinto sequer em relação a um estranho com que trabalho e digo olá todos os dias ?!
Porque é tudo random, sem direcção, sem propósito ? E porque se quebra a inexistência de conversa abrupta e inesperadamente ?
Perguntas tenho muitas, respostas bem menos but I think I can manage a good, honest, conversation in plain português…
Au revoir, god damn it…
Se par hazard, chance you read what goes through odd frequencies in my brain. Maybe you could tell…
A fool from…
“A fool to want you”.
Take care, God bless.
Beatriz.
Do I need to have a question whatsoever?
I’m still trying to decipher half of the counted words Ms. Fire employed – or as Eddie would put it: “We have mechanics working on it”. Undoubtedly I’m an awkward individual sharing a logical processor and a passionate devotion for arts. I’m the sort of person that falls in love in a second, exempting the thorough ordeal most people would submit the ones they might eventually love – given a certain number of clicked boxes.
The thing goes as follows:
Why the hell am I writing in English se estas duas pessoas, claramente com um pensamento muito próprio e dilatado, provêm da mesma nação ?! E porque raio sinto uma barragem entre nós, como não sinto sequer em relação a um estranho com que trabalho e digo olá todos os dias ?!
Porque é tudo random, sem direcção, sem propósito ? E porque se quebra a inexistência de conversa abrupta e inesperadamente ?
Perguntas tenho muitas, respostas bem menos but I think I can manage a good, honest, conversation in plain português…
Au revoir, god damn it…
Se par hazard, chance you read what goes through odd frequencies in my brain. Maybe you could tell…
A fool from…
“A fool to want you”.
Take care, God bless.
Beatriz.
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