______________________________________________you know something?_______________________________________________

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Freud and Jung suck.
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___________________________________________prosaico: da natureza da prosa___________________________________________

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# Textura
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(...) Nenhum de nós se lembra do texto que obriga a recolher as folhas secas, mas estamos convencidos de que ninguém se lembraria que pode deixar de recolhê-las; trata-se de uma dessas coisas que vêm muito lá de trás, com as primeiras lições da infância, e já não existem grandes diferenças entre os gestos elementares de se atarem os sapatos ou de se abrirem os guarda-chuvas e o que fazemos ao apanhar as folhas secas a partir das nove horas da manhã de hoje (...)
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_____________________________________________________bombom dia___________________________________________________

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(...) céu escuro, choveu chocolate (...)


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_________________________________________________all that rises___________________________________________________

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# De passagem
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(...) A qualidade da luz recordada, fiel à memória que dela tenho (...)












_________________________________________________darwin veste zara_______________________________________________

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# Da teoria à prática.








Até aos 30, a mini-saia serve de pretexto para se exibir as cicatrizes dos joelhos, como quem expõe orgulhosamente os troféus das sucessivas conquistas. A partir de então, decide-se mudar de figurino, baixando a bainha para as preservar como se de uma peça de museu se tratasse, atribuindo-se-lhe o valor de obra de arte.



Agora que penso nisto, ocorre-me o tal chavão de que, com a idade, a mulher vai-se tornando conservadora. E até acho que já sei porquê. Deitar tudo a perder, tendo a cabeça a prémio, só tem graça e legimitadade em sede própria, situada na rebeldia da juventude. A trintona que veste mini-saia não só se expõe ao ridículo como ainda se arrisca a que alguém confunda as cicatrizes com as rugas entretanto afloradas na pele dos joelhos. O piropo deixa de o ser dando lugar à acusação da demência ou senilidade precoce; a razão da força espartana deixa de o ser, prevalecendo a velha máxima filosófica sub-60'iana da força da razão. Baixar a guarda, baixar a bainha: preservar, salvaguardar, estimar e valorizar o que de mais precioso se foi conquistando até então. E eis que o medo também deixa de o ser, tornando-se então no mais prudente, se não mesmo no melhor seguro de vida.




mudam-se os tempos, mudam-se as vontades [mentirinha vintage, convencionalmente, aceitável]; muda-se de paradigma, muda-se de guarda-roupa [verdade pós-moderna, difícil de aceitar / adaptar]
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________________________________________________il était une fois______________________________________________

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Querido diário,______________________________________________








_________________________________________________________








______________________________________________________::..:¨¨








_________________________________________________efeméride quotidiana_______________________________________

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# Fruto do vo[u]o, Jesus





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Mulher Proust'rada, mulher condenada; mulher Proust'rada, mulher condenada (...) Repetiu-o exaustivamente até ser arrebatada pelo milagre de caminhar pelas suas próprias narinas.







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__________________________________________________medir o pulso____________________________________________

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(...) mais caule que flor, a amizade ganha raízes em mim (...)








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__________________________________________________âmago # 11__________________________________________

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This is where it happened






Existirá constrangimento maior e mais penoso do que expor uma ferida? Para mim, se não para ti, este dia foi, de facto, uma data (dolorosa).









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Freud and Jung suck.
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_______________________________________________projecção noctambular________________________________________

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# Receber-te, em série.
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enquanto te espero a coluna vai emitindo as abreviaturas da distância: lado a) e lado b).
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____________________________________________________you know something?_____________________________________

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Freud and Jung suck.
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________________________________________________________b.i.__________________________________________________________



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Sabes por que gosto de cinema? porque é um fluxo contínuo de luz. Sabes por que gosto de poesia? porque transforma a noite em dia.

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__________________________________________________balanço quotidiano_______________________________________

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# Jacques Prévert.
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«On reconnaît le bonheur au bruit qu'il fait quand il s'en va.»
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___________________________________________________âmago#11_________________________________________



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This is where it happened

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- All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in ... love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because the frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other's soul and flesh.
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_________________________________________________f*ck grey's anatomy___________________________________________

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This is my state. This is where I live. This is everything you need to know about me
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Love tricot. Love philosophy. Love macramé. Love crosswords. Love mikado. Love history. Love tetris. Love classics. Love to love. Love art
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____________________________________________ num_ linh_ _zul ch_md_ desejo ___________________________________

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________________________________________________________{67}_____________________________________

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There were a set of discs intertwining the words ego love god, merging them with his own name; they seemed to recede and expand over his flat surfaces.


(...)


We combined our belongings. my few records were filed in the orange crate with his. my winter coat hung next to his sheepskin vest.


(...)


We listened to my madame butterfly as sung by eleanor steber. a love supreme. between the buttons. joan baez and blonde blonde. robert introduced me to his favorites - vanilla fudge, tim buckley, tim hardin - and his history of motown provided the backdrop for our nights of communal joy.


(...)


The leaves were turning burgundy and gold. there were carved pumpkins on the stoops of the brownstones on clinton avenue.

We took walks at night. sometimes we could see venus above us. it s the shepherd's star and the star of love. robert called it our blue star. he praticed forming the t of robert into a star, signing in blue so that i would remember.


(...)


He was searching, consciously or unconsciously, for himself. he was in a fresh state of tansformation. he had shad the skin of his rotc uniform, and in its wake his scolarship, his commercial path, and his ather's expectation of him.


(...)


It was exciting just to stand in front of the hallowed ground of birdland that had been blessed by john coltrane, or the five spot on st. mark's place where billie holiday used to sing, where eric dolphy and ornette coleman opened the field of jazz like human can openers.


(...)


He waited for me, and as we headed toward the subway he said, "one dy we'll go in together, and the work will be ours".

Some evenings later robert surprised me and took me to our first movie. someone at work had given him two tickets to a preview of how i won the war, directed by richard lester. john lennon had an important role as a soldier called gripweed. i was excited to see john lennon but robert sept wih his head on my shoulder throughtout the movie.

Robert was not especially drawn to film. his favorite movie was splendor in the grass. the only other movie we saw that year was bonnie and clyde. he liked the tagline on the poster: "they're young. they're in love. they rob banks." he didn't fall asleep during that movie. instead, he wept. and when we went home he was unnaturally quiet and looked at me as if he wanted to convey all he was feeling without words. there was something of us that he saw in the movie but i wasn't certain what. i thought to myself that he contained a whole universe that i had yet to know.


On november fourth, robert turned twenty-one. i gave him a heavy silver id bracelet i found in a pawnshop of forty-second street. i had it engraved with the words robert patti blue star. the blue star of our destiny.

We spent a quiet night looking at our art books. my collection included de kooning, dubuffet, diego rivera, a pollock monograph, and a small pile of art international magazines. robert had large coffee table books he had acquired from brentano's on tantric art, michelangelo, surrealism, and erotic art. we added used catalogs on john graham, gorky, cornell, and kitaj that we acquired for less than a dollar.

Our most prized books were william blake. i had a very pretty facsimile of songs of innocence and of experience, and i often read it to robert before we went to sleep. i also had a vellum edition of blake's collected writings, and he had the trianon press edition of blake's milton. we both admired the likeness of blake's brother robert, who died young, pictured with a star at his foot. we adopted blake's palette as our own, shades of rose, cadmium, and moss, colors that seemed to generate light.


(...)

For my twenty-first birthday, robert made me a tambourine, tattooing the goatskin with astrological signs and tying multicolored ribbons to its base. he put on tim buckley singing "phantasmagoria in two", then he knelt down and handed me a a small book on the tarot that he had rebound in black silk. inside it descrribe he inscribed a few lines of petry, portraying us as the gypsy and the fool, one creating silence; one listening clesely to the silence. in the clanging swirl of our lives, these roles would reverse many times.

The following night was new year's eve, our first together. we made new vows. robert decided he would apply for a student loan and return to pratt, not to study commercial art as his father wished, but to devote his energies to art alone. he wrote me a note to say we would create art together and we would make it, with or without the rest of the world.

For my part, i made a silent promise to help him achieve his goal by providing for his pratical needs.

(...)


Like jean genet, robert was a terrible thief. genet was caught and imprisioned for stealing rare volumes of proust and rolls of silk from a shirt maker. a esthetic thieves. i imagined his sense of horror and triumph as bits of blake swirled into the sewers of new york city.
We looked down at our hands, each holding on to the other. we took a deep breath, accepting our complicity, not in theft, but in the destruction of a work of art. (...) he held duchamp and warhol as models. high art and high society; he aspired to them both. we were a curious mix of funny face and faust.


(...)


Sometimes, during lunch break at scribner's, i would go to st. patrick's to visit the young saint stanislaus. i would pray for the dead, whom i seemed to love as much as the living: rimbaud, seurat, camille claudel and the mistress of jules laforgue. and i would pray for us. robert's prayers were like wishes. he was ambitious for secret knowledge. we were both praying for robert's soul, he to sell it and i to save it.

Later he would say the the church led him to god, and lsd led him to the universe. he also said that art led him to the devil, and sex kept him with the devil.


(...)


I felt disconnected from all that was outside the world that robert and i had created between us.

In my low periods, i wondered what was the point of creating art. for whom? are we ainmating god? are we talking to ourselves? and what was the ultimate goal? to have one's work caged in art's great zoos - the modern, the met, the louvre?

I craved honesty, yet found dishonesty in myself. why commit to art? for self-realization, or for itself? it seemed indulgent to add to glut unless one offered illumination.

Often i'd sit and try to write or draw, but all of the manic activity in the streets, coupled with the vietnam war, made my efforts seem meaningless. i could not identify with political movements. in trying to join them i felt overwhelmed by yet another form of bureaucracy. i wondered if anything i did mattered.

Robert had a little patiente with these introspective bouts of mine. He never seemed to question his artistic drives, and by his example, i understood that what matters is the work: the string of words propelled by god becomig a poem, the weave of color and graphite srawled upon the sheet that magnifies his motion. to achieve within the work a perfect balance of faith and execution. from this state of mind comes a light, life-charged. in Just Kids, por Patti Smith

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____________________________________________________{a note to the reader}________________________________

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A flower that grew from years of flowers.
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Shot by one who caused a modern shudder.
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And was favored by his mother.
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A wall of flowers concealing all the tears of a relatively
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young man with nothing but glory in his grasp.
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And what he would be grasping in the hand of God
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drawing him into another garden.
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____________________________________________________{a note to the reader}____________________________________

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Jesus died for somebody's sins
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but not mine
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Meltin' in a pot of thieves
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Wild card up my sleeve
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Thick heart of stone
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My sins my own
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They belong to me, me

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_________________________________________________{ 30 - 31}____________________________________________

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It was friday, july 21, an unexpectedly collided with the sorrow of an age. john coltrane, the man who gave us a love supreme, had died. scores of people were gathering across from st. peter's church to say goodbye. hours passed. people were sobbing as the love cry of albert ayler spirited the atmosphere. it was if a saint had died, one who had offered up healing music yet was not permitted to heal himself. along with strangers, i experienced a deep sense of loss for a man i had not known save trough his music.

Later i walked down second avenue, frank o'hara territory. pink light washed over rows of boardered buildings . new york light, the light of the abstract expressionists. i thought frank would have loved the color of the fading day. had he lived, he might have written an elegy for john coltrane like he did for billie holiday.
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(...)
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That wasn't much fun, but i had my mantra, "i'm free, i'm free". although after several days, my mantra, "i'm hungry, i'm hungry", seemed to be in forefront. i wasn't worried, though. i just needed a break and i wasn't going to give up. i dragged my plaid suitcase from stoop to stoop, trying not to wear out my unwelcome.

It was the summer coltrane died. the summer of "crystal ship". flower children raised their empty arms and china exploded the h-bomb. jimi hendrix set his guitar in flames in monterey. am radio played "ode to billie joe". there were riots in newark, milwaukee, and detroit. it was the summer of elvira madigan, the summer of love. and in this shifting, inhospitable atmosphere, a chance encounter changed the course of my life.
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It was the summer I met Robert Mapplethorpe. in Just Kids, por Patti Smith.
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___________________________________________the back of my neck was wet _______________________________________

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# In a liquid state of matter.

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_____________________________________________passagem de testemunho_________________________________________



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.Madonna c/ Basquiat, 1982.



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Quem te comer a carne que roa o osso.
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________________________________________________my candy cotton club mood_________________________________

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# Da Serra, 2010.



Cai neve, cai neve, cai neve no Pico [da Serra] além; é branca, leve e fria a neve que a ponta do Pico tem.
Sim a ponta do Pico é longe, é alta, além não pode ir lá ninguém. Mas eu um dia com a minha fantasia peço à dona ventania e ela me há-de levar pelo ar além a ver a neve que a ponta do Pico tem.
Cai neve, cai neve cai neve no jardim, branquinha cobre o chão então, tudo é branquinho assim.
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__________________________________________________projecção etimológica_______________________________________

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This is my state. This is where I live. This is everything you need to know about me


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Janeiras s. f. pl.

( latim januarius, -us)

1. Descante do dia de Ano Novo.
2. Presente do primeiro dia do ano.
3. Nome vulgar de certas plantas que florescem em Janeiro !janeiro.
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PLAY > C'est ça que j'adore < PLAY
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______________________________preâmbulo: mas as coisas findas, muito mais que lindas, essas, ficarão________________________

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Querido diário, ________________________________-..--.
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__________________________________________________do privilégio________________________________________

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Retábulo votivo concebido a partir de uma série de fotografias tiradas à mão de Miles Davis, por Irving Penn em 1986.

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(...) se não o tens, que te seja criada, oferecida ou concedida a oportunidade de sorrir. Eis o meu mais modesto desejo* de Natal p/ ti (...)


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[*] errata: direito.
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__________________________________________________you know something?_________________________________________

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> don't be click < .
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Freud (.)(.) and Jung (Y) suck.
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___________________________________________________âmago#10_______________________________________________

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This is where it happened



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- Onde jaz o teu sorriso?



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_________________________________________________f*ck caravaggio and chopin______________________________________

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This is my state. This is where I live. This is everything you need to know about me .
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For life is quite absurd
And death's the final word
You must always face the curtain with a bow
Forget about your sin - give the audience a grin
Enjoy it - it's your last chance anyhow
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So always look on the bright side of death
Just before you draw your terminal breath
Life's a piece of shit
When you look at it
Life's a laugh and death's a joke, it's true
You'll see it's all a show
Keep 'em laughing as you go
Just remember that the last laugh is on you
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And always look on your bright blue bag
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{love art & whistle}

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______________________________________________________f*ck yoga_______________________________

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Ludo-puzzle; a partir dos ftgr. de Zabriskie Point, de Michelangelo Antonioni + Inception, de Christopher Nolan + Filme do Desassossego do grande senhor João Botelho.

. .Puzzles de fotogramas de

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This is my state. This is where I live. This is everything you need to know about me
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__________________________________________________acidez noctambular____________________________________________

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#Refeição nua, em série.
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Desta vez arranjámos cocaína. Injectem-na na artéria principal! Pode-se-lhe sentir o cheiro frio e agradável no nariz e conseguir depois uma onda de gozo que invade todo o cérebro, estabelecendo as ligações devidas. A cabeça estala em explosões brancas. Dez minutos mais tarde apetece-nos outra injecção... se for preciso atravessa-se a cidade de uma ponta à outra, a pé, para a conseguir. Mas se a tentativa sair frustrada come-se, dorme-se e esquece-se essa necessidade.


É meramente um desejo ditado pelo cérebro, uma necessidade que não está interligada aos sentidos ou corpo, uma necessidade fantasmagórica, ectoplasma rançoso varrido por um velho junky quando tosse e vomita na manhã doentia.


Há uma manhã em que se acorda e se tomam anfetaminas. Fica-se a planar. Polícias de 1890 com bigodes pretos trancam as portas e debruçam-se nas janelas arreganhando as tachas e com cabeças cobertas de emplastros azuis e dourados. Há junkies que atravessam o compartimento entoando a marcha fúnebre de Moslem, levando aos ombros o corpo de Bill Gains, e as marchas deixadas pelas picadas da seringa têm um brilho de um azul-pálido. Detectives esquizofrénicos indigitados para a tarefa metem o nariz no penico.

São as más viagens da cocaína... Sentem-se e descontraiam-se e tomem uma boa injecção. Dia dos defuntos: injectei-me e comi o cerebrozinho de açúcar do meu pequeno Willy. Ele gritou e tive de sair para ir buscar outro. Passei pelo bar onde deram cabo dos miolos do livreiro Jai Lai.(...)
O estudo das máquinas de pensamento ensina-nos mais sobre o cérebro, do que conseguimos aprender por métodos de introspecção. O homem ocidental exterioriza-se sob forma de dispositivos. Já alguma vez se injectou na artéria principal? Produz-se uma reacção directa no cérebro, activando ligações de puro prazer. O prazer da morfina é visceral. Depois de uma injecção ouvimos o que se passa no nosso íntimo. Contudo a cocaína corresponde a uma passagem de electricidade através do cérebro e a necessidade de [vitamina] «C» é unicamente do cérebro e nada tem a ver com o corpo ou sentimentos. O cérebro carregado de «C» é uma máquina mecânica frenética que dispara orgasmos eléctricos de luzes azuis e cor-de-rosa. O prazer da «C» poderia ser sentido por uma máquina de pensamento. O desejo de «C» dura apenas algumas horas, durante o tempo em que os canais de «C» são estimulados. É evidente que o efeito da «C» apenas se poderia produzir por uma corrente eléctrica com a finalidade de activar os canais da «C» ...


Assim, pouco depois os canais desgastam-se tal como as veias e o viciado tem de descobrir outros. Uma veia pode-se sempre apanhar a devido tempo e mediante perita rotação de veias, um junky pode sempre prolongar o prazer se o desgaste não for demasiado. Contudo, as células cerebrais não se renovam uma vez eliminadas, e quando o viciado deixa de dispor de células cerebrais fica numa situação lixada.


Na linha de horizonte destaca-se o panorama de idiotas nus, acocorados em cima de ossos velhos, excrementos e ferro velho. Rodeia-os o silêncio absoluto - têm os centros da fala destruídos - à excepção do ruído das faíscas e da carne macerada a que aplicam eléctrodos ao longo da espinha. No ar, imóvel, paira o cheiro a carne queimada. Um grupo de crianças atou um idiota a um poste de arame farpado, põe-lhe uma fogueira entre as pernas e fica a observar o espectáculo com curiosidade animalesca, até que as chamas lhe lambem as coxas.A carne estremece sob o fogo numa agonia de insecto moribundo.


Como é hábito, estou a entregar-me a devaneios. Debruçando-me sobre conhecimentos mais exactos da electrónica do cérebro, a verdade é que as drogas continuam a ferramenta essencial do interrogador no ataque que faz à identidade pessoal do indivíduo (...) in Alucinações de um drogado de William Burroughs.
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__________________________________________________you know something?_______________________________________

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Freud and Jung suck.
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____________________________________________________f*ck minimalism________________________________________

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A partir da criação/doc. Comer o Coração de Vera Mantero e Rui Chafes, 2004.
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Assaltou-o várias vezes, de entre tantas que foram, ficava em silêncio c/ medo de ser apanhada. Com o tempo foi abrindo de mão beijada o tesouro valioso que guardava. Hoje assume-o. Reconhece-o. Trata-o na 2ª pessoa. Libertou-o. É livre.

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És tu, Amor - digo eu.

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__________________________________________________antologia da paixão________________________________________

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..---¨¨...suspensão.---¨¨...

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inspirado, tocado, por minha nossa senhora de Feist

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Antologia s. f.

antologia
(grego anthología, -ae)

1. Bot. Parte da botânica que estuda as flores.
2. Fig. Colecção !Coleção escolhida de trechos em prosa ou verso; selecta !seleta; crestomatia. in Priberam
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_______________________________________________________f*ck design_____________________________________________

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Ateliers de Pollock; Francis Bacon; Vieira da Silva, e Patti Smith respectivamente.

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This is my state. This is where I live. This is everything you need to know about me
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___________________________________________a minha alma não dança c/ os números__________________________________

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http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cB46mn8Exd8_____________________________________
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________________________________________________op. cit.__________________________________________

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Shuuu...


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___________________________________________________âmago# 8___________________________________

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This is where it happened



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- I went there one day on my own, and I return from time to time. It's the Buttes-Chaumont. I like this place because it's empty and wild.
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_________________________________________________efeméride quotidiana______________________________________________

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Um dia, quando for grande quero Ser.


Morrer grande_______ um dia_______ para depois.
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____________________________________________________the meaning of life______________________________________

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#Do interior


All along the eastern shore put your circuits in the sea, this is what the world is for: making electricity; you can feel it in your mind...oh you can do it all the time plug it in and change the world you are my electric girl
I said ooh girl shock me like an electric eel, baby girl turn me on with your electric feel.
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[poção mágica].


_______________________________________________________29th round_______________________________________________

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Everlast since 23-11-1981 .
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____________________________________________________lar-doce-lar_____________________________________________

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(...)Recebo-te por meu esposo e prometo ser-te fiel, amar-te e respeitar-te, na alegria e na tristeza, na saúde e na doença, todos os dias da nossa vida, até que um viúvo rico, ou o contraceptivo mais eficaz, nos separe (...)
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Freud and Jung suck.
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____________________________________________________âmago#7__________________________________________________

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This is where it happened

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- Já usei os cabelos compridos e tinha um sorriso diferente; hoje tento reconhecer a minha imagem em que desenho sardas aplicadamente e revejo essas memórias.

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Freud and Jung suck.
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_______________________________________________chuva (fauna vs. flora e afins)_________________________________________

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Só os peixes respiram debaixo-d'-água.
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Freud and Jung suck.
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________________________________superação quotidiana ou quando o particular e o universal coincidem________________________


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#Constelações, a partir do excerto de «tanto tão perto tão real
que o meu corpo se transfigura»


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Se a arte tem como destino eleito as nuvens, o meu corpo também.
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___________________________________________________ da tua pinta_____________________________________________

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Preciso [...de ti.]

# em série.(.
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_________________________________________________salmo da sobrevivência______________________________________

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O "cântico dos cânticos" de fim-de-tarde de domingo, a partir da obra de Michael Borremans.

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(...) Tudo na vida é efémero até a morte. Terei que matar, e morrer, e viver, e matar, e morrer outra vez (...).
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__________________________________________________yes, we blue_____________________________________________________


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Feed me (I'm new here).
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I see skies of blue... and clouds of white

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the bright blessed day... the dark say good night

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and I think to myself... what a wonderful world...

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Feel me (I'm new here).

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Freud and Jung suck.
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_____________________________________________________indigitar___________________________

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This is where it happened.

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Fetishcracy is a well succed political form of government in which governing power is inspired by E.T. finger light.

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Freud and Jung suck.
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________________________________________________soneto noctambular______________________________________

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Barbary Castle clump, spring, 1974, por Fay Godwin.

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Me falta tiempo para celebrar tus cabellos.
Uno por uno debo contarlos y alabarlos:
otros amantes quieren vivir con ciertos ojos,
yo sólo quiero ser tu peluquero.
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En Italia te bautizaron Medusa
por la encrespada y alta luz de tu cabellera.
Yo te llamo chascona mía y enmarañada:
mi corazón conoce las puertas de tu pelo.
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Cuando tú te extravíes en tus propios cabellos,
no me olvides, acuérdate que te amo,
no me dejes perdido ir sin tu cabellera
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por el mundo sombrío de todos los caminos
que sólo tiene sombra, transitorios dolores,
hasta que el sol sube a la torre de tu pelo.

Pablo Neruda
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Freud and Jung suck.
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_________________________________________________redenção noctambular_____________________________________

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Why do (: oui :) create?


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«to drive back the beast», Nabokov.


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«to get out of the chaos», Michaux.



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«to be loved«, Genet.
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