:: Mardoux Mardoux... ::

::12.3.04:: DO NOTICIÁRIO Pesoas matam pessoas. Se pensar que Deus poderia ser um grande jogador de WAR, a questão é simples: dominar todo o território, equilibrar o número de exércitos. Afinal, do que adianta um moooonde te pecinhas entulhando uns territoriozinhos tão pequeninos? Gente demais fazendo coisas demais, ricas demais, ganhando dinheiro demais. Elimina-se. Gente que pensa diferente demais. Mas é só ver uma fotozinha qualquer, só de ver a capa do jornal de hoje, que é impossível entender o que acontece na cabeça das pessoas. E é impossível que exista alguma coisa superior a isso tudo, e que obviamente estava olhando para o lado quando aconteceu. De uma vez, mataram cento e tantas pessoas que estavam andando de metrô, em Madri, na Espanha. De uma só vez, que golpe mais preciso! Pra ser terrorista você tem que ser um puta jogador de War. Tudo muito triste. :: Marcia Furriel 3:32 p.m. [+] :: ... Comments: Enviar um comentário

[::..perfil..::] "...[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 [::.. perfil sarcástico..::]