Plan to be a pleasant guy.

While walking around Oxford Circus, I met a beggar saying goshing words. He complained. The beggar told me about young laughing. Children smiling. Yes, it's different. You know that!, he was shouting to people (or to me, maybe) in a grouchy mood. But it was not offensive. I can not explain how something grouchy may be shouted not sounding offensive. That's it.

The old beggar. My sight. You look at me. No, you look at him. At the beggar. The sight is: The beggar, Me, You, The pigeons, and Me again. It's not complex. So, pay attention! What do you make? What can you make?! The beggar shoots a pigeon, kandles a flame of fire, on prime-ful Square; yes, now we are at Trafalgar Square, where polishes, hungarians, italians, libaneses, You, Me, the beggar, the pigeons, and some hidden rats bunch ourselves trying (or sampling) to be pleasant ones, or, at least, sensible people. But Me and other animals are not capable of being reasonable. There's no reason for us.

It's too late, when the night delays to coe, but arrives flashing any kind of live, the beggar eats his pigeon. You look at me sadly. I don't have a place to look, either to put my sores down, or a shoulder. It doesn't mind, i think, because ever will exist someone harmfully than me. But...but... pigeons have just gone. Only one stayed, dead. It's your deadline, i scream to reach you. Yes, you comprehend me, and I need to get along with myself, lonely. Hey!, i say, do not go far. You ask me to overcome insanity, because it can take me (us you wanted to say) over. I agree, but i inquire if you allow me to keep not being a pleasant guy. Of course, that's your answer, i don't like pleasant ones.

Treatise (Essay off-duty) about brazilian people living overseas.

It's a tragedy. They want only have fun-money. That's weird. No, that's not weird. Their fun is different of other kinds. Perhaps i don't comprehend them as i should, or i don't comprehend them, as well. That`s a hint to follow. Or not. Moments like this i take the royal care. That's ugly so. Maybe.

They live lost around the city. Dedicating their wishes of being to any not noble task. I am really sorry for them, for me, for you. They live dedicating their wishes of being to make money; to the make-money-machine; their lives sounds as a machine: making-money, making-money, making-money. A washing-machine: washing clothes, making money, washing clothes, washing money, washing dirty money.

Not that they steal, murder, or traffic; perhaps this way could be better. But that they lose their lives toward: making-money. It's ugly, i endorse. I can't conceive an ideia like that. Dirty money. Money-made with smashing people lives. People that survive and are not only alive.

Ok. Everyone needs money. But not so much. I agree. And also not to getting hungry to accumulate great exorbitant ammount of money. I prefer spend as a perdularium.

Brazilian people are, except us, the better ones, of course, as i would name like: 'selected people', despising. They're despising. I despise. You despise. He despises. She despises. It despises. The dog despises. We despise. You despise. They despise. Everybody despises. Please, i can not give my life to the smashing-money-making-machine. I am sorry.

Thoughts and words to the winds. I recognize I have no sense.

When the swifts come flying from east, I can see the clouds, the same clouds that witnessed our tragedy. You threw me away to the wind, or with it. But I didn’t care, or I could not, perhaps. ‘When the day becomes young, you will understand all your mistakes, then, don’t be sorrow’, I said. Hearing that she answered me nothing, but I know, and inside the plenitude of that moment I could comprehend she would feel my lack.

One month now is past, she doesn’t answer her phone when I try. She doesn’t want to talk to me, I still understand because she is weak yet. But the day is upcoming, and she will need to accept her happy regret, to fall down in love into my arms again.

I’ve never saw the tone, and I need to get across, to get off of the ground, thus I will fix my existence, or set it up into some kindness one. Get a job. Please I can do still the cases you gave me. People scream I was pretending to be without me. Those cases, bordered with affection, stuffed with single love, given straightly to me, I receipted and made other boxes, fulfilled with hard fakes that were complaining in my so harmed heart. So, that’s why, I ask you please, comprehend my situation and do not disagree, I need your hand as I never needed before.

I go cry in the old station, alone, with my clean face of memories, from my mom and my dad, from you, memories that are trying to be forgotten, and that I insist on keeping them safe. Memories that do not exist. Memories from what I have never lived before, neither ever.

Has you once loved me bitter well? I don’t know that by a dream, just remember when I was close to you feeling the most sordid depression, but even so, I love you.

Yes honey, love is the word, the word we tried with no success to express in a million times, is it gone? I fell down into the ice when god left my hand, just because I was shouting and inquiring what was this love so far. Listen, never forget you took me out of bed, I know that and I give you all the credit. Yes honey, love is the word, we have ever tried to explain, but we’ve never gotten say, perhaps today is the day we will comprehend its sense, love is the word, and you need to touch this meaning, as I’ve never got, as you’ve never thought capable. Touch and hold it inside your hands, honey, please.

When thinking about the feelings without sense to loose, I deal with the inevitable disorder, the chaos flaming my conception of life, world, reality, tragedy, poetry and absurd. All those meanings are strictly plugged into my existence, and I can’t open my hands for them. The soul is damaged, the men are dying, and I am going together.