I know it doesn't seem so,

but I know what to wait for, and what I'm seeking out. (:
Trust me, I really do.

Obnubilados.

__Meus olhos doem. Não sei se é porque tento enxergar o que está além de mim, ou se porque ele não quer ver o que nos traz a maré. Talvez seja pelas minhas tentativas de enxergar o que não posso (ou não deveria) ver com os olhos.
__Meus olhos doem. Confesso que, na verdade, é um só que dói. Dói daquele jeito cansado, latejante, tão insistente quanto um cachorro com fome. O que dói é o lado direito, o meu lado mais descontrolado, mais irracional. Ele dói como se algo o empurrasse para fora; como se minha cabeça estivesse inchando de um lado só.
__Pronto, agora meus dois olhos doem. O outro se uniu solidariamente, dando um tímido apoio. Minha cabeça também dói agora. A parte de trás.
__É tudo uma dor de espera, de cansaço, de entorpecimento. A dor se infiltra nos órgãos e desce como um doce véu; ela avança, puxada pela gravidade. Chega ao estômago, o corrói por completo e faz o que deveria ser o coração inchar. De dor, de aflição e de impotência. Ele incha e comprime seus vizinhos, e empurra a dor para baixo.
Meus olhos não param de doer.

Clap-ton

Clap. Clap. Clap.
A shy noise came from the gate, sounds of hands clapping, anxiously waiting. He looked through the window. The house was dark, although she knew he was standing there, peering at her with his distant eyes.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
The rain pattered the glass, smothering those stubborn clapping hands. They weren’t stubborn, actually, he thought, almost desperate, afflicted, but not stubborn at all. They could be stubborn in other subjects, fleshy ones.
Clap. Clap. Clap.
She wasn’t like that, he considered, and, thinking deeply, she had never been like that. What was she doing, soaked and trembling and clapping?
He stayed, she remained.
Clap. Clap.
Clap.
And then she stopped. Suddenly. Utterly. She stopped as she never clapped there; as a stranger; as someone else. She took her huge bag from her back and dug around it until she found a little white stick. She peeped discreetly and went to the other side of the street. There lay a stately bricked wall, wet by those endless teardrops. She threw her bag away at the sidewalk and began to write something.
Oh, that’s a chalk, he concluded.
The rain cleaned her writing in a few moments, but he could see her strong handwriting fading away with two verses. And then she clapped again, at the other side of the street.
‘And will we cry in passion or will we cry in pain?’
Clap. Clap.
‘And will our lonely teardrops fill the world with rain?’
And then he understood. He looked his dark house, and heard the other Her snoring in the room. He sighed, and went to the window. He didn’t looked at her face, just breathed near the glass, making blurry stains and writing a slow ‘in pain’, backwards.
He left the window and went to bed.

Mr. T

"Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
I'm not sleepy and there is no place I'm going to.
Hey! Mr. Tambourine Man, play a song for me,
In the jingle jangle morning I'll come followin' you.

Though I know that evenin's empire has returned into sand,
Vanished from my hand,
Left me blindly here to stand but still not sleeping.
My weariness amazes me, I'm branded on my feet,
I have no one to meet
And the ancient empty street's too dead for dreaming."

Balacl...

"And there isn't no going back
And it's wrong wrong wrong
But we'll do it anyway cause we love a bit of trouble"