sábado, 23 de abril de 2011

Diabo da Tasmânia

Tudo é preto. Tudo é negro.

Tudo é instinto, acima de qualquer aspecto da razão.
Não existe raciocínio, nem medo.

Em caso de fome ou afronta - presas, sangue ferve, adrenalina, mandíbula, sangue corre das presas, nas presas.

Ausência de sentido.
Insanidade /



domingo, 10 de abril de 2011

The feeling of integration with the earth and the stars

Darkness. Stars.

CO2 to oxigen, slips of sense.
The bright green tree almost died, but from my mourning I happily collected that they failed on their assault.

Notwithstanding the few leaves of rebirth that happened to fall again, I take delight from the sight of this demi-dead nature fast-motion static scene.

Not so pleasant, though, is to feel the life of her twin made os synapses.
As the blue leaves of alienation are apparently gone, the dry sticks of doubt are all that's left, and everytime some sense tries to come up from the roots, with or without the blue sedatives, it all ends up ruined by the "fear of illusion" toxine.

As all slips of sense end up metabolized, I just hope this inner tree will manage to survive the near death experience, hopefully better than her sister.