Robert Silverberg's

He walked toward the bus stop. It was a chilly night, the wind cutting into his bones. He was tired.
As he rounded the corner, he paused, wheezing.


By some standards he was a successful man but life hadn´t been any joy ride. It had been rocky and fear-torn, filled with doubts, disappointments, hangovers.

He realized he was more than half glad he was almost at the end of his road. Life, he saw now, had really been a struggle not worth the bother.

There was the bus, half a block ahead, and he was going to miss it.
He began to run and stumbled as a cold hand squeezed tight around his heart. The sidewalk sprang up to meet him, and he knew this was death. For a startled instant he fought for control, and then he relaxed as the blackness swept down.

He opened his eyes again and looked around. He wailed in despair as the hand firmly slapped his rear and breath roared into his lungs.

Resta o amor, uma voz desafinada a trautear aquilo que depressa se torna um revivalismo extremo de Julio Iglesias e pouco mais...
(ver Os Lusíadas)

Uma Lisboeta emite um olhar terno e compreensivo

Local: Toronto ou qq coisa parecida

Banda sonora: Cat Power

Lisboeta de tronco nú, com um ténis roto e um dente meio desfeito cuspido pela manhã

Local: Toronto ou qq coisa parecida

Banda sonora: Serafim Saudade

Ao miguelito, que se lembrava

telegrama - isto não é hipertexto

bem frisada
a alface
Quero marcar distintamente
golos
Há maluca
e há quem queira
tapar o sol

com a pena
sobrevoar videiras
intoxicar-se i.e.
uma grande

(B tripeiro)
Carpa aos saltos encarpados
na poça
Da irmã
com meias de alcatrão ao joelho
olhos de alface
no corpo inteiro.

Carreguem nestas palavras, o peso de uma ligação inexistente.