Character: Horacio Oliveira

I touch your lips with your finger on the lead edge of the mouth and draw it like he came out from under my hand, as if your mouth is opened for the first time, and enough for me to squint, so he was gone, and then start all over again, and every time I make reborn your mouth I want your mouth, which is selected and drawn on your face with my hand, your mouth, one of all chosen by the Supreme freedom, I elected to paint it on your face with my hand, mouth, which will clean the case (and I'm not trying to understand how it happened) turned out to be just exactly the same as your mouth that smiles at me from under the mouth, drawn with my own hand.
You look at me, look at me close, closer and closer, we play Cyclops, we look at each other, bringing together the face and the eyes are bigger, and everything is closer together, screwed each other: look Cyclops in the eye, breathing breaks down, and our mouths meet, poked prakusya each other's lips, slightly pushing his tongue in his mouth and tickling each other's heavy, irregular breathing, smelling the ancient, familiar smell and the silence. My hands are looking for your hair, immersed in their depth and caress them, and we kiss as if our mouths are full of colours, exuding a vague, dull flavor, or alive, fluttering fish. And if it happens to bite, the pain is sweet, and if it happens to gasp in the kiss, suddenly swallowing at the same time and subtracting the air from each other, then the death-moment beautiful. And saliva we have one two, one two this taste of the Mature fruit, and I can feel you shaking me, like the moon, shivering in the night waters.

We roamed the streets and were not looking for each other, knowing: we go to meet.

And how easy it is to build a suitable circuit, to restore order in thought and in life, organize harmony. Common enough hypocrisy, enough to build past the rank of life experience, removing the sense of wrinkles on the face and experienced with what he learned to smile or be silent for more than forty years of his life. And now you're wearing a blue suit, a carefully combed silver whiskey and appear on the exhibition or are included in the "Garden" or "Richmond", being reconciled with the world. Discreet skepticism, the kind of person returned from afar, decently entry into adulthood, marriage and the path fatherly teachings over lunch or a journal with unsatisfactory marks. I'm telling you because I've lived the life. I saw the world. When I was a kid. They all, as one, identical, I tell you. I'm telling you from experience, son. You don't know life.

Mate - as a paragraph. Drank - and you can start with the red line.

And so Paris destroys us slowly, sweetly, frays between their flowers and paper tablecloths stained with wine stains, burn us with his fire, not having the color that breaks out in the night of time eaten porches.

Sometimes it seems to me that between two people smashing each other's face in blood, more understanding, than between those who look at each other here as if from the outside.

In fact, after forty years of a real person we have on the back of his head, looking desperate, looking back.

One moment - and a smiling human mouth can turn into a hairy spider and bite.

Sometimes I am convinced that stupidity has the shape of a triangle and that, if eight multiplied by eight, you get a crazy or a dog.