Emília was feeling nauseous. Outside, a cold wind cut everything. From Sunday to Sunday life went on. Maybe, who knows, in a time, things would change and the days would turn into Fridays. And there is also even those ones who say that everything is a sense of point of view. She´s gotten tired of the Super People. They were all very alone. And with a touch of fake in everything. If they´ve drunk coffee, it could be shitty coffee, but being a property of a Super Person it would be transformed. No! There are shitty coffees, and there is a place for shitty coffees in this world. And there are poor people who drink shitty coffee. It doesn´t matter if they speak about european cinema or brazilian funk music. The subject does not change the concrete thing. There is no much to do except to sit and work, if we didn´t do so, we would be sponsored vagabonds. Not introducing there any kind of moral, but the another´s property always leads to bill´s explanations. What have we, me and Emilia, talked about? Oh yes, that the subject doesn´t change the concret thing. And then there was that grey wall, and Emília with her explosives. It was just a matter of weeks.
2005, Florianópolis.
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