So many inanimate figures makes me tired, are repeated very symmetrical too close in appearance discourages me, The Bossa Nova pitiful in the distance provides more density to the moment.
That voice sweet and heartbreaking, these tones sensual and sad sounds of São Paulo, born in those favelas that rise and drop like dead flowers, dead flowers.
This city of precise inequality, of this vast heterogeneous streets and expressways, absorbs me making me part of the visceral graffiti, of its untold stories of the others.
The city Vertigo distorts my steps I cannot straighten myself as the more aligned the streets are, I escape into the subway and break a vein of the great city as I run to the outside limits of this big heart of asphalt and cement.
In the distance I find a momentary lapse out this dark echo that controls me, I wash my face with cold water looking to clear my mind and my eyes in an effort of releasing as much information of glass and steel as I can.
Unequal periphery devoid of infrastructure, cemetery of eternal peace among many bullets and no food, plantation dead stuffed in heroin.
Poverty of spirit, frozen samba, scraping colors, smile full of tears, story of a gol shot the gates of hell.
I take my way back and immerse myself again into your gray veins, return my debate with fashion, cosmopolitan trends, this light rhetoric and the evil trapped.
I feel your bite starkly and deep; when we dance so close you carry over the death of love.
And I'm still in love with you, even off the ground and on my knees; I'm still in love with you.