(January 2007?)
January:
Afternoon.
The high-speed dirt of the city get stuck to my eyelids; 15.000.000 stories stroll dumb under a Sun, dumb, dumb, all is BuenosdumbAires! Fuck.
Crestfallen trees accompany a boulevard of austral steps and streeter food's smell, while the black 'n' yellow taxis *brand Peugeot brand* drive the grand ladies toward the aristocratic northern zone: food food food food food food.
A Scottish church's façade aaaAAAAAAAHHHHhhhhh throws screams over old women all dressed in Chantilly suits, the Sun is omnipresence that saturates my anxiety: that smell, what can it be.
Evening.
I'm on the streets picking the litter, would kill everyone at sight. How I would beg for the soft peace of your silvery lips...the centre of Buenos Aires is an ant-hill in the arse of Benny Hill, mozzarella & leather, everything is semen, except the trees: meanwhile, the concrete's skin of the enormous city is caressed by the oblique light: why, fuck why.
At the hour of the scandalous twilight, when everything gets yellow and red, and the schizoid urban collapse gets blended with the pouring rain, then.
Then I search you among the crowd...then! Then! Then! Like a raving demented jumping among yuppies and grey suits, is this fair!
Did you know that ain't no love in the heart of the city?
Nigh(t).
I'm feeling like a woman who's going to give birth at a crossroads tonight.
Nobody feels like, anybody feels the way I feel, and I'm crazy; you know, you know I feel crazy. You know, you know; I feel maybe...
Every town has its history, and its story: which is yours? Once I demanded the world to hear, with all the rage of an afternoon in the lungs of HELL...now I am just letting this lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce, letting, lettuce go...
