Gypsy

"So I'm back, to the velvet underground

Back to the floor, that I love

To a room with some lace and paper flowers

Back to the gypsy that I was

To the gypsy... that I was

And it all comes down to you

Well, you know that it does

And lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice

Oh, and it lights up the night

And you see your gypsy

You see your gypsy

To the gypsy that remains faces freedom with a little fear

I have no fear, I have only love

And if I was a child

And the child was enough

Enough for me to love

Enough to love

She is dancing away from me now

She was just a wish

She was just a wish

And a memory is all that is left for you now

You see your gypsy

You see your gypsy

Lightning strikes, maybe once, maybe twice

And it all comes down to you

I still see your bright eyes, bright eyes

I have always loved you

And it all comes down to you..."

[Fleetwood Mac... or even better, Stevie Nicks!]

Cidade gata de botas

Tô cansada. Tô vazia. Ando por aí topando nas emoções, nas coisas e nas pessoas, à espera de algo a me preencher. Eu sou um vácuo. Um útero. Cheio de todos os recursos necessários mas sem vida pra gerar. Subumano, subutilizado, underrated. Suburbano, no meio dessa cidade sadicamente apaixonante. Os perfumes se misturam com os odores, a beleza com a feiúra, a serenidade com o caos, as calçadas modernas perfeitamente calculadas com as sarjetas, as árvores com o trânsito, os pés com os pneus, os cabelos milimetricamente asseados com as barbas mal-aparadas, os transeuntes com os carros, os ternos com as calças rasgadas, a solidão com as multidões. Tudo no mesmo balaio. Um só coração que bate por todos. E ele pulsa, pulsa...

Tô impregnada por São Paulo, é assim que eu me sinto.

Com o perdão de começar frases com pronomes oblíquos

Me esqueçam, me errem, me apaguem... eu morri.