Sunday

Sunday was a beautiful day.

I went to catch the Trem das Onze at Luz Station with my father. We walked in the Parque da Luz and went to the Pinacoteca Art Gallery. We ate coxinha and talked.

Then Ziza came here with his children and Ale (his wife). Bruno arrived at the gate and the first thing he did was to ask if Alice was here. No. He's a cutie. Then when I was watching the Ennzo play videogame, Ziza sat next to me and talked. About the heart.

You know, family is really great. Who would imagine my uncle giving me this kind of support?

Other than that, I still have a cold. I bet whatever you want it's psychosomatic.

This means that by tomorrow or after I heal because I'm tired.

Sayings

You know, I never believed when people said "out of sight, out of mind."

I always had people strongly rooted in my heart that are indefinitely out of my sight.

But maybe now it's time to learn how to make this saying come true.

Night

This Monday night is cold and my throat hurts. But I found the reminiscent of a more beautiful night, so long ago, back in 2003.

Night

Ah ... the night air is pure magic.
The smell of an ending, cooling day, the feeling of calming emotions, God could not have invented anything better than this smooth coolness ... The smell that comes in the wind is everything and is nothing, it's a bit of people's lives; all of it is calmed down and catalysed; the buzz fades to give place to the delightful activities of nightlife... bars, baths, cafes, books on the balconies ... and clubs, with their rowdy girls, instinctful boys and drugs and music and craziness, the clubs are isolated from the healthy night air, but they enjoy the darkness and the diversity of life through which it passed.

The night is of restless hearts.
It is of the moon. Owls. Cars. Of people and stray dogs ... The night after the pizza was Paulista Ave. and their exhibitionists cars, the nooks between buildings, the stream among the flowers, talk under the moon, a guitar in the heart of Sao Paulo.

The night is a mother of loves, a grandmother of passions, a nanny of lovers. She cares for the cats on the roofs and the beggars sleeping under the tents in which they sell trifles during the day.

It's the night.

The night brings me a melancholy full of satisfaction.
And my brother brings me a serenade of love.

Window

I'm posting a text that I wrote years ago, more precisely in 2003. It's slightly based on real events, but it's primarily a literary work.

Window

From my roof, I see a window. In fact, I see many. Some are always open, some never. There are those with flowers, there are the serious one, or filled with cats. This one, however, is a mystery. There was a phosphorescent dinosaur model. Gone. There was a guitar. Disappeared. Countless times the open shutters showed the dark doors of an opened closet. Yet other times, clothes on the sill.

However, in it I never saw people. Not a person. Not a movement. Mystery.

The window watched me. I walked on the roof. I sang with my sister. Tossed a ball. Retrieved a ball. Toasted barbecue. Swept. It rained. And the window always there, watching me.

She knew my secrets, my crying in secret corners of her shingles, my happy songs, my maths homeworks, and I, what did I knew of her? I knew it was pure fear, an ever-present eye, overwhelming.

Years went by.

And he turns to me: you're my neighbour!
Me: huh?
I've seen you on the roof!
But how?
It's my window.

The minutes. He knew everything about me. What did I know?

Was it yours, the dinosaur on the window?
He: wow.
Fear.

It was all I knew. He knew everything. But he invaded the roof, I peered the room. Surprise.

Why on the roof?
Why the dinosaur?

We faced each other. Unsustainable. Two who knew one the other in unspeakable and unmentionable details. The start of something?

The end of everything.

I didn't go up to the roof.
He closed the window.
We moved.