"I apologize"

relendo notas antigas em talões de supermercado. contendo o assombro por ser indiscutivelmente a minha caligrafia, por ter tido disponibilidade mental para tais reflexões. contendo o constrangimento por não ter agora tempo para terminar um romance de jorge amado, para ler os comunicados de imprensa que chegam diariamente à minha caixa de e-mail, para o activismo e as suas musas. cedo retorno à metrópole, minha-terra-minha-guerra, aos cinco minutos a ler as capas dos jornais generalistas na banca à saída do metro da cidade universitária.

Howl

To Joseph, the texan guy who made french toasts for breakfast and shared them with us. The same guy who quoted Allen Ginsberg for no reason, who disappeared through the night in an unknown town, after Gogol Bordello's concert. The one who fixed the hole in the street, our boyfriend in the first week. I guess he won't read this, and if he ever does he probably won't remember us. Just in case. By the way.

«I saw the best minds of my generation destroyed by madness, starving hysterical naked, dragging themselves through the negro streets at dawn looking for an angry fix, angelheaded hipsters burning for the ancient heavenly connection to the starry dynamo in the machinery of night, who poverty and tatters and hollow-eyed and highsat up smoking in the supernatural darkness of cold-water flats floating across the tops of cities contemplating jazz, (...)»

Allen Ginsberg