quarta-feira, 11 de janeiro de 2012
Steve: About 90% of this world's problems are caused by little words that come in pairs. We're healthy and we're happy... Yet, when anybody asks us, we say "not bad". You know when I saw you the first time dancing -this is about a month ago, by the way, in the process- I was desperate to buy you a drink. But you know what I said to myself? 'I can't.' 'She won't.' 'We wouldn't.' And then you're there again tonight and all indications being that I'm getting a second chance to make a good impression. So, you say 'stop'... And I'll stop.
Once upon a time, there was Candy and Dan. Things were very hot that year. All the wax was melting in the trees. He would climb balconies, climb everywhere, do anything for her, oh Danny boy. Thousands of birds, the tiniest birds, adorned her hair. Everything was gold. One night the bed caught fire. He was handsome and a very good criminal. We lived on sunlight and chocolate bars. It was the afternoon of extravagant delight. Danny the daredevil. Candy went missing. The days last rays of sunshine cruise like sharks. I want to try it your way this time. You came into my life really fast and I liked it. We squelched in the mud of our joy. I was wet-thighed with surrender. Then there was a gap in things and the whole earth tilted. This is the business. This, is what we're after. With you inside me comes the hatch of death. And perhaps I'll simply never sleep again. The monster in the pool. We are a proper family now with cats and chickens and runner beans. Everywhere I looked. And sometimes I hate you. Friday -- I didn't mean that, mother of the blueness. Angel of the storm. Remember me in my opaqueness. You pointed at the sky, that one called Sirius or dog star, but on here on earth. Fly away sun. Ha ha fucking ha you are so funny Dan. A vase of flowers by the bed. My bare blue knees at dawn. These ruffled sheets and you are gone and I am going too. I broke your head on the back of the bed but the baby, he died in the morning. I gave him a name. His name was Thomas. Poor little god. His heart pounds like a voodoo drum.
terça-feira, 10 de janeiro de 2012
Coisas boas não vão bater na sua porta se você deixar o jardim bem arrumado. Você tem que sair atrás delas com uma rede de caçar borboletas. Coisas boas são pequenas e escorregadias. Elas sabem se esconder muito bem. Mas as vezes a gente dá sorte, e captura uma das mais brilhantes. É claro que apartir do momento que você a pega, ela está destinada a morrer. Mas que importa? O número de lágrimas que é derramado depois não vai apagar aquele primeiro sorriso. É só como tem que ser.