Molto Verdi and Coltrane dear Nathália and not as many imagine the sound is not in
ears what was attributed to uncompromising daydream what is arrived
simply by itself and inflamed me yet I don’t understand why exactly made me so
unscathed last night as I don’t explain the off-season rapid beating of my heart pumping
vulgarly the blood of another I loved another and today I love another my love is in the
music of the dark rooms and last week I bought candy milk and searched for an
almost extinct white owl, piu, Nathália, o sei stato tu, Nathália, come le ballerine and as
the stage of alla Scala as Garnier’s stage as so many stages set in the shrunken hearts as
the dissonant and elusive note cursing the make-up faces of the tenors and the
pure expressions of the ballerinas or perhaps expressionless “or maybe he recorded
the snowy landscape of the mountains and valleys before completely stripped them off ”
and tears turn the stage into soup wherever I see “soon” I seem to lose some hope and
slowly my hands imprison my face and only with my head I signal the taxi to stop and all
of this only because of you so that I can see you dance and smile a little more because
this is what Art is and the midnight shoulders go wherever you go who you heard
crowning the lovers and they also slowly cover the wounds with petals and the wounds
scream and burn and foam without anyone seeing or hearing.