When the hell begins to smell.

The rough cigarette still burnt expelling a thick infamous smoke, nearly to reach its filter. Despite the smoke, his fragrance was still around, haunting her feelings and senses as images of a past not completely done. There was only half an hour that he had shut the disloyal door, which stared at her at that very moment. It gazed her steadily straight on her breast, as if an embodied chest, animated by a being that queried her questions without answer. She could not move because he had gone taking everything away, putting all the belongings she most and only had.

Memories were raiding her conscience, causing irresolution, and pushing forcefully off all her last attempts of being. The seule thing she wished was she could be.

Three hours passed through her life as if nails being hammered into her nostrils, torturing, paining. The same continuous languor carried on. The cigarette became ash. The ashtray was about to be entirely powder. Her breast had being pierced a hole full of nothingness by the distressing door.

There was no longer sense on making up for dinners, concerts, plays that used to be watched with him. A sort of kindness, which she once pretended to play, was no longer needed to be sustained. Perhaps now the most important thing to be done was how to get rid of the ashtray’s ashes, maybe not.

When the phone rang, she had no strength to answer it. He could be trying to tell her that everything could have been wrong. He could be definitely departing. The thought of million possibilities may have killed her. Her body was found in the next morning, when the newspaper deliverer forced the door trying to get some tips, and saw the beauty pale lying toughly on the floor.

Golden broken chains, silver necklaces, cheap fragrance perfume, old yellowed worn clothes and everything else was left behind, apart from a disgusting mint barely chewed gum.

As we lie falling asleep.

- We are just two fools lying together on the same bed.
- What do you mean with ‘together’?
- I see, I could mean together in love, but now I just mean beside, close bodies, warm sensation; tenderness.
- Where do you guess we can go? I mean, achieve, get to.
- Perhaps nowhere.
- But nowhere does not exist.
- I don’t believe so.
- How come?
- For instance now, we’re lying on nowhere.
- We’re not.
- This bed just below us is nowhere. I mean we’re thinking of nothing but nothingness at all, we may be the embodiment of nothingness, and that means standing in nowhere, against nobody, talking about numb feelings, faded lives, which doesn’t exist as well as the other things I’ve formerly said.
- You’re quite capable of playing the meaningless.
- Maybe not when you make choices.
- But choices are entirely linked to chances, as well as likelihood.
- You ought not to involve likelihood; it’s something you don’t know about.
- We are going as far as nowhere.
- Shall we stop?
- Where?
- Where we are.
- Maybe not.
- I’ve got some slightly chilled beers.
- I don’t like it.
- Why not? It is just beer as it’s ever been.
- It’s not the same, definitely.
- Ok, temperature urges you for drinking or not.
- Absolutely.
- You fagot. I’ve either got water.
- No, thanks, I’d better drink nothing. I’d rather remain lying dully on the bed.
- Beside or away from me?
- It doesn’t matter.
- I’m asking you, would you like me gone?
- I’ve said already, it does not matter.
- It should matter. I wish to know.
- Yes, you can stay.
- I can stay or you wish I stayed?
- Hell, I’ve said, no matter.
- It’s not the same for me, maybe just like slightly chilled beers are not the same for you. Has anything changed since then?
- You can’t ever know whether I wish you stay or not because, for me, it really has got no matter. And definetely things have changed in such a way that the chilled beer shall not be the same, for my consciousness is not the same either.
- Ok, I’ll make us some coffee.
- Yes. Don’t take as long as I can forget what we were talking about, eh?!

The flowers of mine.

My flowers haven’t got smell, they talk to each other, communicate amidst themselves with outstanding speaking skill. They speak in ‘petalish’, the language of the smoothest fibres.

My flowers were conceived to satiate, not to please, never to soothe, nor to rejoice, not even at all to beautify. They’ve rather been made to embitter than any other thing, if I could choose. But my flowers were created to pain; to hurt other people’s ever hardened indulgent hearts. To dig bottomless holes, puddles without mud or sewage to moisturise.

My flowers were made to satiate other one’s hunger, anyone, someone whom art belongs to even when ownerless. Flowers also make part of the wool within that button of the shirt, which was left behind, cowardly abandoned with no excuses.

My flowers were made to fuddle violent ruffians, unspoken, those unmentioned damn without ways and how.

My flowers, as I most thus refer to them, are not mine. They’ve already flown away. They’ve coloured and risen up other walls but mine, infamous distant walls.

Flowers, as I most attempt complicating them, are just flowers. So simple as singular words can be figured out.

Flowers, the ones of mine, are to finish the hunger of who does not feel it; create and undo the germ of wish, which does not desire; to paraphrase reality, to contradict the lie, to deceive mocking the truth, to dazzle the blind and to please the fool.

My flowers are mine because They are everything I’ve done and haven’t got.

Talbot guessed he would never be alone.

- Why are you telling me that? - Because I wish have got a sensible woman beside of me. - But I do know that, you don’t need to patronize me. - Ok I sweetheart, I’m just going for a drink with some bastards, do you mind? - You’re asking me whether I mind leaving you meet up your disgusting lovers, are you? - No, I’m not. I’m just going for a drink. - I’m sorry but I can’t believe you. Talbot leaves the flat, Natasha screams madly, the neighbours hear that and attempt to complain, but Natasha is irreducible. Talbot was not going to meet up any disgusting lover, unless his wearisome friends wish. Natasha was shouting random swears surrounded by unconsidered neighbours. Talbot was smoothly having a drink with his job partners, but it was all. Natasha could not comprehend and soothe herself. When he comes home the trouble is ready to depart. - I’ve told you shouldn’t have gone. - Why? - Because I didn’t want you to go. Do you think It’s fair leaving me alone in the damn evening, spending all that time with neighbours? - You did because so you wished, for sure. - No. - Every morning is the same, can’t you realise I’m sick of all? I’d just like doing something different. It’s not so hard to see me, is it? - Ok, you only need to let me know and maybe we can try those church programs to avoid divorces. - That’s quite foolishness. I can’t hear you’re telling me that. - I’m just trying. - So you shouldn’t. Just leave me alone. They go to bed. They do not talk at all for all the nightlong. And in the morning, new arguments were likely to come up. - Every morning you smile the same, you breathe the same, you damn smell the same, you kiss me on the same exact corner of my mouth, and then you ask me for not being faded, I’m sorry dear, but I can’t. - You don’t even try. - Yes, I do. Talbot goes to work. Natasha weeps. Talbot talks on the phone, while Natasha traces her wrists deeply. Talbot comes back home, there is no neighbour, and there is no difference apart the utter quietness. Talbot gets in his home. A few bloody stripes stain the scarlet carpet – but how?!, you ask me, and I reply: The carpet was not that scarlet, some kind of forged scarlet carpet. Talbot browses for the source. Talbot finds her (ex) wife’s wrists pouring down on blood. The matter was the same mint flavour every single morning; the same yellowed smile every single evening, the same damp kiss every single nightfall. Talbot is happy since then.

Start from the Beginning.

Change the matter, think of the places you would like to be within. But it does not make sense. It does not matter, I reply. Who replies? The insane coming yelling bullshit from the corner. But, there is no corner. Just inside your mind, because here I can see, can you not?

No, forget everything that is utterly wrong. What I should have done is not the most proper thing, but You could have regarded, at least, the important words; yes, those ones that were figuring swords penetrating your breasts as if the smallest grains of sugar would be able to do, but they do not. Only because it does not make sense, I realise.

Effectively, although the desperation caused, roused, inspired, by all the literature by the ancient, I do provide quarrel subjects to be discussed. Arguments are not available through along this shore, even because there is not any shore along the medicine paths.

She could be I guessing about books that have never been read. She could be just a sheep running away the hunters. She could be just a haunted life enduring her unbearable life despite the absurd hardships. But she has not gotten any hardship. She is just whom I ought to mind, at all: the only person. And I do, for sure.

London Reviewer Of Books must be coming to knock my doors shortly; I cannot deny I am quite excited to see what they have got to tell me. Maybe there is only foolishness, but I should not judge because I have never seen it so far. Perhaps I am just trying to be polite, because I am not. I confess to be exerting.

Days of grey sky are inspiring, or not, it depends on your point-of-view.

That is all I have got to say by the moment, but I promise I am going to attempt this language hardly as I expect some advance to be done. Maybe for the next text I shall be able of writing any either complete or sensible thing. Welcome to the illustrated Tiago’s land.