Que sensação estranha ver a Clarice aqui, rs.
“And now — now it only remains for me to light a cigarette and go home. Dear God, only now am I remembering that people die. Does that include me?
Don’t forget, in the meantime, that this is the season for strawberries. Yes.”Nobody reads…
Source: journalofanobody
hoje acordei com medo, mas não chorei
nem reclamei abrigo
The pains of love, and they keep growin’,
in my heart there’s flowers growin’
on the grave of our old love,
since you gave me a straight answer.
I wish you’d make up my bed
So I could make up my mind
Try it for sleeping instead
Maybe you’ll rest sometime
I wish I could
e com precisão pra lá de matematicá
O Abraço (Egon Schiele)
I understand, all right. The hopeless dream of being - not seeming, but being. At every waking moment, alert. The gulf between what you are with others and what you are alone. The vertigo and the constant hunger to be exposed, to be seen through, perhaps even wiped out. Every inflection and every gesture a lie, every smile a grimace. Suicide? No, too vulgar. But you can refuse to move, refuse to talk, so that you don’t have to lie. You can shut yourself in. Then you needn’t play any parts or make wrong gestures. Or so you thought. But reality is diabolical. Your hiding place isn’t watertight. Life trickles in from the outside, and you’re forced to react. No one asks if it is true or false, if you’re genuine or just a sham. Such things matter only in the theatre, and hardly there either. I understand why you don’t speak, why you don’t move, why you’ve created a part for yourself out of apathy. I understand. I admire. You should go on with this part until it is played out, until it loses interest for you. Then you can leave it, just as you’ve left your other parts one by one.
uma das minhas músicas preferidas de todos os tempos.
