Anagram
Explorations of a Dawn into Afternoon
It sucked me in as if on assisted breath. I was surprised until I realized. Yes, that day had arrived.
Even if the final passage through the tunnel was no easy task — black, black, black, black until the last signal.
Five in the morning, awake. My back, heavy as tons. I had to sit down. Sit down and forget. Forget and see myself as an Andy Warhol installation.
Then through some vacuum I was cast into the city. Forgetting to have lunch, I think I saw Paulo Nozolino before the military garrison on Rua Ferreira Borges. He was reflecting, observing.
I too began to reflect and to observe. A jolt of lucidity even released a ghost — bound to lose itself among the buses…
Hold on, you have plenty of fuel left to spare. So much gasoline burning inside you could even magnetize all the shops in the city. The trouble lies with the supermarkets.
Years ahead, the sky would be so clear that Troia could be seen from the top of Serra do Cercal.
No storm could stop it. Time does not end with clocks.
