::14.11.03::
TEMPO ESGOTADO
Nada como um final de sexta-feira, mais precisamente às 21h, enfurnada no trabalho e rosnando para o chefe que quis brinacr de Pequeno Pônei hoje e sair dando coices. Amanhã tenho mais um enterro pra arrumar, mais um pequeno look no Fábio Assunção de terno preto e óculos escuros tipo os Gucci (uuuuhh) e mais uma cara de emburradinho para aturar. DIO MIO, preciso seriamente de uma praia, um descanso ao Sol, uma música feliz e doces companhias.
Man Next Door
Massive Attack
There is a man that live next door
In my neighborhood
In my neighborhood
And he gets me down...
He gets in so late at night
Always a fuss and fight
Always a fuss and fight
All through the night
I've got to get away from here
This is not a place for me to stay
I've got to take my family
We'll find a quiet place
Hear the pots and pans they fall
Bang against my wall
Bang against my wall
No rest at all
He gets in so late at night
Always a fuss and fight
Always a fuss and fight
All through the night
I've got to get away from here
This is not a place for me to stay
I've got to take my family
We'll find a quiet place
Maledicências à parte, foi meu chefinho que finalmente me emprestou o Mezzanine pra gravar…
:: Marcia Furriel 9:04 p.m.
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"...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--"
DO LIVRO
The Subterraneans
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