lsd com torrada.

i miss you like you were mine the city overwhelms me. anxiety grows within me, i feel like crap - all by myself, alone. old ghosts around me, why are Sundays so hateful? the day i started this i was a bag of shit - though i was listening to sara bareilles. you wrote letters that you never sent i made promises i'll always deny [...] our fears are only what we tell them to be now norah jones tell me some damn truth: you always hoped one day you'd be mine [...] you were strongest when i ached for breath and life goes on, the circle of life repeats itself. will the ghosts ever go home? leave me alone. i switch to ava rocha, this super cool brazillian singer, another damn truth delivered right to my ears, i just need to internalize this: no, it's not me who you are looking for

by 1996, i already had experienced all my traumas. what is the point of this? there are never enough traumas. i may be wrong if saying that i experienced all my traumas by 1996; that would fortunate, if so. the truth is that the post-1996 traumas were kind of recycled traumas: they would only fashion into something new, a new date, a new occasion.  why 1996? definitely i can't bet why, but that's what it is. things just are, like i am here, typing, sufjan stevens singing to me, i am here alone, like i have always been, since 1996, or since 1991, since my mother gave birth to me and all this started.  but then, it is just that i dwell too much on this negative spiraling thoughts, that i am not too many things - and i am not, really. really.

colorless light bulbs hugs i thought the metropolis was full of neon lights, but those were only colorless light bulbs. colorless, just like i probably was near you, feeling the breeze and trying to break into you. but i got nothing more than colorless-light-bulbs-hugs. or did i gain something more? time passed and i discovered that the metropolis is, in fact, full of sunlight passing through the curtains. the city is a better place at 6 in the morning (only when you wake up to exchange fluids).

self-pórtrait "best fake friend award". niterói, 2016. and the award for best fake friend goes to: moi. i couldn't help avoiding to stare at you. must i say "i'm sorry for not hanging out with you"? well, sorry, i'm not saying this. not a word. i'm not sorry. you see, i've decided something before you left this year and i am still pretty sure about that (decision). period. though i just wanted to say that i cried my heart out when i decided that, it wasn't easy; our last phone call conversation, cut the transmission line. i cried, before it was cool. not that you know, or even you should know. let's just say it's better to have some other person crying in other shores than those where i weep. and you just called me love.