#161 Untitled

In these random impressions,
and with no desire to be other than random,
I indifferently narrate my factless autobiography,
my lifeless history.

I recently saw in a toy-shop window some objects that reminded me exactly of what
these expressions are: make-believe dishes filled with make-believe tidbits for the miniature table of a doll.

Man wallows in life,
with all of its complexities,
and goes to sleep.

How quickly I then race from my apartment where I dream to the office,
and when I see the face of Moreira it's as if I had finally docked at a port.

For it's never I who thinks,
speaks or acts.

He possessed,
in equal measure,
the intelligence of a creator and the sensibility of a slave.

I gave my life an aesthetic orientation,
and I made that aesthetic utterly personal,
exclusively my own.

For the time being,
since we live in society,

our one duty as superiors is to reduce to
a minimum our participation in the life of the tribe.

In all my moments of spiritual liberation there was a dormant sorrow,
vaguely blooming in gardens beyond the walls of my consciousness,

and the scent and the very colour of
those sad flowers intuitively passed through the stone walls
whose far side.

Peace at last.

Borgia committed beautiful crimes? Believe me that he didn't.

—Scicio, O Guardador de Rebanhos