emotional flashbacks of past depressive periods, the weight of absolute solitude in são paulo streets, the scents the shouts the taste of permafear hormones in your blood. glue-sniffing little boys approaching you for your cellphone, trying to sound threatening. "just kidding, mister, i’m just kidding" when something evil in you stares back. buying a pastel for a street kid, having a dozen more pop up, having to say no twelve times for every yes. saying no to the longing gazes of gay men. living signs everywhere, a thousand eateries all alike, fruits hanging everywhere and bready fluffy pizza and alcoholic men. stopping at places for comfort more than food. living with twelve million people, in absolute solitude. being called "boss" and "champion" and "German". reading Burroughs it’s hard to explain, I’m trying to pinpoint that very particular mood or feeling I had on those streets, but I’m not Woolf I’m not Sartre or Beauvoir, I can’t find the words that evoke its hues. so many days in São Paulo, all bad. the common but distant humanity of the buses, stuck in traffic forever. you’re never stuck in traffic you are being traffic, the city all around you like the entrails of incognizability.
Elilla’s personal server.