climbed the mountain.
Mount is new. The hill is expensive, according to everybody. There is no talk of anything else. years I've been watching growing that mountain, or how not just grow. Rusting years, years incinerated pasta. Years there, invisible, years thinking.
But two buildings are already open in the Gaiás . They are not pyramids, but I thought of the pyramids. What I do not see up there was the scallops, although I'm not saying that is not. At least I did not want to see it. Is that sees Christ in a wet spot. To me what the scallop seems a joke, a fart joke. I do not care what you say Einseman with quackery and snake charming modesty. Do not even need to have a scallop. I know that name is enough for there to be. That we would hear the sea scallop, if necessary. A Fraga, sure, it convinced him of the scallops. This astronomical scallop hat placed on a mountainside.
Rather I see these walls of sand that make children on the beach from their armchairs privileged cellulose and poop. You may even I like these buildings, really. They are born old, abandoned even before being abandoned for lack of use. Are empty temples of a new culture without a body, the memory of an extinct era. Our acropolis. Couches eating grapes gods, literally.
is frowned upon that hill like this one rebuilt. This waste. But do not advocate waste, I do not understand and I escaped and I think more of the same, stupid driving. Maybe I like it that is absurd, useless old thing. But try to convince me of my error, I look confused. What surprises me is that we only import these wasteful with glitter, the Audi Touriño, as covered in gold, and the Mausoleum for one of the few politicians capable of surviving an atomic blast , if this occurs.
The library already has that aspect of the archaeological museum. The books inside are relics of another time. They are not, and do not think they are in a long time. But they seem to say there, the books, yes, ever exist, here we are, we are testing.
The sky was very black and everywhere sounded a delightful echo of footsteps or voices. Maybe it was the workers, chatting while they ate the sandwich. I wanted to see the place as an older contemporary, something that comes and old from the future. A future world brought from the science fiction of the fifties. A Cecil B. DeMille and not cardboard, without Roman and without masses.
We can say that it is, therefore, authority and nobility of yellowed by time, this brand new stone. Almost see the moss of the abandoned place, and that before the end. Post-apocalyptic city is without Revelation, of course, not necessary. I could not have known otherwise; Cidade da Cultura.
I set on the tour. The reality could not be more metaphorical. The birds are thrown into the guns, and even the gross metaphor puts us in a gypsy-savvy eye. The group moved awkwardly, tripping over each other. Mesmerized by the loud voice of the guide, but bored. Attending haggard, staring open-mouthed and those who can not avoid (for the treatment maybe) they might miss some thread of drool from time to time.
I gave a cigarette to one of the inmates of psychiatric smoke us looking up.
We are in a strange world. I found a beautiful place, delirious. Gave us the wind from all sides.
We are in a strange world. I found a beautiful place, delirious. Gave us the wind from all sides.
