[Carlos Moura, Tão precioso como o medo, 1998]
"I come to you up a ramp of firey butterflies which feed upon us and transform me into a most profound child. The arrogant chill dissipates in the rush of warm air from your mouth My diffused wound and the harness held tight on my blind, skinless organs. The sweet fall within the fall. A distinct idea buring at two ends. We struggle passionately together. In open unsheltered places and now, i feel her most secret coral flower and gently touch her wet slopes, labourer of love on my knees resting from my passion.
(...) Im am this spill which is my only moment. Desire, immovable and nowhere.
My missing you is also a tough collection of abodes, steps and pauses. Imminence is scrupulous, exhausting work. I erase and write down what i feel, distracted, unknowing. Something that is quite normal and does not come by way os text but is a kind of corridor to transgression.
At times, we are perfection that has ceased and flung us out of the world.