this desert-like sensation of affectionate kisses emptying your strengths like a cloud meeting a hot steam of air
hurricanes of soft incertitudes that shut the windows pull down the curtains
‘I broke my phone trying to call to Heaven so that I know whether I killed the saudade or it was me who died’
past lying before your feet and future lurking behind your back, where are we looking at?
•É interior à minha mágoa
A alegria do dia claro..•
(Fernando Pessoa)
Pessoa saying the the innermost part of a sadness is the joyfulness of the clear day.
<a point at which a given mathematical object is not defined or not „well-behaved“, for example infinite or not differentiable>
•Sero venientibus ossa.•
.
That sharp burning sensation somewhere around the stomach that everybody has left, everybody is somewhere else, that you have arrived too late, impossibly to catch up with all that has flowed through, empty room with just bits of food left behind and jumbled furniture, oped doors and semi-closed windows, curtains that a played with by the wind, only resembling of a movement, of a sigh, of a dialogue never brought to reality or never achieved.
For those who has arrived late – bones. Urban deserts filled with bones.
Field with bones.
Army awaiting to be resurrected.
Where is the tube, though?•