A coisa não é para menos. Estamos nos primeiros dias do ano e os rubis estão à espera. É uma longa história. De aiaineses, criptões e uinãos. Não, não queiram ler. Não é sobre Hong Kong, se querem saber. Nem Las Vegas. E daqui não levam nenhum segredo. Ainda se põem para aí aos tirinhos. Mas fica o aviso: Russell não é para meninos!
The Captain doesn’t show any signs of softening up. He ordered us all to move into one of the ships and turned the others to flames. He himself set them alight. And, since he was further away, the Captain swam to the Manhattan set it on fire and crashed it against the Cobain turning the two vessels in a huge hellish burst of flame.
I recall walking hundreds of times on the old bridge, where the mind flows like nowhere else. Nothing can symbolize a city like that connection. The bridge that from day to day builds a river in its entrails in a sin of fantasy.
I tried to see your face in the face of the others. That unpopulated nation. Deconstructing the face of everyone or adding them one by one. To find you. Macanese, is what the verb rings. The being of this land. That endless commitment. Which brings nothing of concrete.