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Rascunho #1

     Em pouco a florescer, mal se via. Entre as descidas e subidas  Amontoava pela surdina a areia que vinha a vista.   Alimentada pela angustia de seu hóspede Permeia pelos quatro cantos da cela. Por vela, em terra, que não enterra  Desencadeada pelos séculos.   Vendo em parto uma fração interminável Sentiu, poliu, mesmo sendo vil. Foste dormente pelos astros, os únicos que o ouviam-te.   Pegou-a pelo pulso, a gritos Por vê-la em seu respingo Avulsa a vida, bem se via. 

07/10/2025

         Same landscape , same moment, same conclusion? probably not. There are situations which just seems like they have to keep coming back, although I am less unsure now. I don't know how many times i have written to myself to make it, or at least force it, into the past, strangling any emotions beyond some sense of rationale.

    Still exists though, as unclear as it has ever been and as unsolvable as ever in my own little world. A pathetic world for this scenario, but how could I judge myself while not considering how I am? There is no grief that pertains anymore, no guilt, no more things to learn or that I wish to learn.

    Could have been a melodrama, superficially should never had, but honestly I really do not care about changing how it is, but I do care on a repeating dial. Less noisy, but still noticeable, although less frightening, it is, and it bothers me that it is.

    Nevertheless, its been livable enough. Neither Aristotle nor Freud would go as deep into this tint of a play, which bothers me enough to be remarkable, not as much to sadden me still. Maybe God could make the next species of humans less desiring to love, oh what a shame :/

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