Category Archives: Scribblings

As the nucleus takes its time

“A reação normal é resultante de várias forças elétricas de repulsão.”


The joke could be on you, but it would take too much of both our unexpendable lifetimes to try and comprehend the meaning of this. As an embodiment of (t)reason, I decline as a last effort the impulsiveness of putting my flesh in harm’s way. Safer for me and whoever else that’s as deep-in-their-cups as I consider myself to be. That is the one and only thing that needs mouth acting to be said, and thus it is the very (t)reason for this waste of both our retinas.


Resmungo – tradução

De psique concreta e aproveitável, existem apenas aqueles contos apagados e inexatos. Se ao menos uma vez alguém pudesse encontrar o conhecimento do descanso, da paz líquida que se encontra adormecido dentro de sua própria acomodação, ele consideraria todo o Impensável. Assim como o fizeram os melhores de nós.

Let the viper wrap itself around your dreams

I’ll praise you for it. Might even think of making you my new peptalk subject.

Antagonism, the masked form of keeping something close

I don’t have a verbal description for the sensation I feel when my wandering eyes, unaware of the danger in the act, travel absentminded through the memory land of photography and come across the image of Clarice… I just flinch.

(and I don’t know whether that’s a good or a bad thing)

The woman clothed in light and the great final fright

Clothed with light and nothing more;

the lady’s ice-cold situation at the morgue…


With her last whisper, she had voiced her fright of dying and fading away,

and every single soul was captured in her contagious dismay.

There was panic beyond belief,

each and every heart was emptied of all but grief.

Desperation filled the gray-colored institution

as yelled inside the observers’ minds the scream of absolution:

“Our time is due”


Does writing it make it less true? If so, then who deems right the act of disdaining the same words that the ink and the paper make visible, when they’re made audible by the seldom used vocal cords of a writer?

For a scribbler like myself, the fact that I translate the feelings I voice into written things is the most substantial proof that they are true. Writers write, my dear! That’s what we do, and we do it better than any other kind. If my simple declarations don’t suffice… then I have only these heartful, underestimated words to offer. Oh, but I hope they do… I really do.


What’s the reason for that sad face, little lamb?

I thought you had had enough of bad blood for the evening, so it’s only natural that I found it strange when you touched the doorknob of a gate that had been closed for God knows how long… did you honestly think you could get me to open my heart for you a second time? Are you really that naive?

You can only ask so much from an accidental clash of antitheses. If it were that easy to get back what you lost, neither of us would be here. Wouldn’t you agree?

Fly away, little bird, summer is not this way

The temperature drops and it bothers you enough to make you fly away.

I found myself in the zero-degree winter, sweet thing,

I learned it from a snowgirl I once knew.

Dream – prediction

I was in a rush to leave my old school, since a bunch of police officers (dressed in American police outfits, for some reason) were chasing me around, yelling that I shouldn’t be there. I stopped by her (after I had mixed her up with someone else, who didn’t even look like her) and I turned to say something that probably had nothing to do with anything that was going on, but she stopped me and said what I think is the smartest prediction a dream ever generated:

“I was scared and afraid I might hurt you back then, and I didn’t say what I wanted to. I’m going to say to you what any friend should say: it’s not going to work with me, and you should quit, once and for all.”

Maybe it was just one of those crazy Sunday dreams, but there’s a pretty good chance that this is exactly what’s going to happen. At least I have something to begin with next time…

Come home, or just…

…fuck it!

If death awaits the alien pathology of the miscarried barons, I’m just another snowflake that falls among tears from Mother Earth. Then sanctioned by disgusting hazards to the undeniable facility of human rights, I stand between the love for a simple female and the greater end: the loneliness of a thousand lives.

Satisfaction is a runaway at this point. I can’t go back to being hollowly in love with an image of a black angel dressed in hypocritical blue colors… that’s just beckoning the brilliancy of such words…

Back to, back from… who cares? When all I see is snow, snow and snow ! I’m really just a complainer, when fighting against something most folks would just not agree with… but, hey, that’s the way I like it!