Topografia

À noite, se acabou de chover, passeando pelas ruas, fui beber algo ..; everywhere people trying to find some company and still everything emitted a certain distrust, women spying men, men spying women. Fear for the other, the intruder, for the one that might take a piece of skin, fear for the strangeness of the body of the other, fear for tomorrow, fear for the days that go by, the seconds … e eu, observo …
Men have always been perseverating collectors of jewels of skin. They don’t take the whole of a woman, but pieces, small and delicate centimetres female body, a wrist, a throat, the form of the pubis, the exact folding of the thighs, not to close by, not too far from the centre of the world, the beginning of the neck, the rounding of the breasts, their heaviness, the quivering of the nipples, their largeness, the openness of the thighs, without counting the amount of flavours he meets during his explorations, perfumes, clouds that change with every part uncovered, temporary assigned as to marks, where one has to stay put, or make you return to where you came from, because that is the magic game with the other, with the forest, the meridians of the world and the desert-paths, with territories that look the same but wherein one is always losing oneself. Though the topography stays the same, the fair grown grove, the stream, the river, the bushes, the cleave, the valley, the globular mountain, the mountain ridge, the summit, the abyss, the heaven is never the same, nor is the polar star, nor the milky way, all those landscapes belong to a bit of space-time that is always different. The directions of the wind, the points of time, the births and the deaths are ceremonies that are individual and the desire to find is without end, never stilled, never fulfilled. Because we know since our birth that the chains of these worlds are infinitely.

tancredo infrasonic