Sunday, July 6, 2014


No, I don't.

A few blocks from there, the smell of freshly caught fish. Ships on docks.
"This morning of thin air, this air entering your nose like a  jelly mixture. Cold. A day without birds singing, lost in their flights, trying to reach a south. Sur. Sul.
The word for south in Spanish a rumbling drum: Sur.
South: it’s a ship docking.
South: an old bandoneon.
South: A sailor that knew how to paint. His hands on you.
South: Your sailor. Your wharf.
Where are you, Sur ?
Where am I ?"

mais do texto, aqui

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