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There is nothing to say, now, my absent valentine. Let it be the rain who talks and does all the questions and gives all the answers unfound. Even the stars have hidden their bright bodies behind the melancholic shade of clouds. I'm staying at home, tonight. All of my friends have left the stage to finally inhale the fumes of reality. It's me and Elvis, here. No, not that one, 'cos he's dead for a long time and has gotten used to that status. It's the other Elvis (the more talented one): Costello. We've been talking to eachother for a while now. The question is that all my doubts have been unanswered. And all the answers he's been giving me haven't yet had a question. But we like listening to eachother, I presume. He hasn't complained yet. What about you, my absent valentine? Your silent voice sings the blues for me, sometimes. Your breath whispers desires which can only be heard in dreams. My eyes they close to touch you. And the darkness is a screen where all our dreams are given the attention they deserve: it's only me, the audience. But don't worry, my absent valentine. The day you'll be born, believe me, I'll be informed, however old I might be then. However old I might feel. Damon at 12:53 da manhã
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outras praias
where words come together as waves, blue and beautiful, dying in the whiteness, but repeating themselves like music notes, from sunrise to sunset to sunrise again. um livro: «Saudades de Nova Iorque», de Pedro Paixão. um filme: «Memento». um disco: «King of limbs», Radiohead. |