(…)
That morning, from the first moment she blinked until she lifted her
heavy eyelids completely, didn’t just pass hour after hour, no, one season
transposed another season in the immeasurable expanses of the morning,
world after world, reality after reality, until it no longer existed. How distant this day is from his own morning. Even his morning is distant from
itself. The first faint ray of light on the horizon and the clarity of dawn in
the window are like two different beginnings, two starting points.
(…)
They walked through the oscillations of the world that the skin
captures, things that hardly concern it, touching every contour without
really touching them. The stairs were filled with signs that electrified the
atmosphere, their hands leaving a trail in space that revealed them. It was
one of those places of final tranquillity, the kind that comes from no longer
having to postpone anything to an unlikely future.
⟡
Longo (2001) escreve canções e textos, e por vezes os dois ao mesmo tempo, o que não revela distreza, mas sim acaso. Talvez por fazer demasiado caso de si, seja razão para que o trabalho brote longe dele. Ou assim lhe parece. E ele lá vai, caso a caso, feliz de poder parecer jardineiro de casa alguma, casa a casa, talvez até carteiro de um qualquer caso que não é seu. Mas que assim lhe parece.