It is one of their favourite noisier music, and it insult for the sound to dislocate the senses… to elevate the cultural identity. To show the mythology no ancestral, but the actual, of the sheets oil-producing, of the fields diamantiferous, of the vast extensions of uncultivated lands, starving. She unmasks in the body the dance, but she forgot unmasking of the mystery of the liberation fight that he modernises in the national destruction.
To hear music is as a great thunderstorm, and they are not necessary rumbling of a thousand thunders and the blindness of a thousand orange rays. Seasoned by the new builders' monstrous machines that hole walks, streets, terraces, that destroy and they rebuild the soils, to I sole and together of the escapes free from the fast ones motorized, authorized to challenge Jupiter.
To dance, to intoxicate, to drug.
As Voltaire's father today would say: some children in prose, other in verse. The parents will always be called invalid and small vessels, because they don't feed their children's madness. No longer we have children. I doubt that somebody has them. Servants of Brutus, to steal and to murder parents. For us to dance, they drink and they sleep.
I looked at what remained at that house. Two fans that worked with luck. They were paralyzed, led of rust. The television worked to the blow. Because of the flaws of the electric energy the freezer called, it turned off. The careless bed, always tumbled in the hour of lying down. Of the roofs of the bath house, of the kitchen and of the corridor, the drops of water comfortably destroyed the dream of a home. They stopped being ceilings, they were grottos with almost stalactites. The couple sexagenarian worked and it struggled for his homeland. And silliness in the such fight of the liberation, and now for the homeland and family abandoned, it remains them the comfort of the musical sonority, striping of the romantic moments, of the one more census… to be everything in the same and the same ones always receive the same pensions.
So much petroleum and diamonds! How much more wealth more poverty. Where the safes are very full, there is a lot of slavery. Technological slaves of the new technologies. Slaves of the modern Horses of Troy. I listen the widows that jump in the trees, showing the mantle of his song. I will never believe in the Man, while only one exists human being to starve.
My walk continues. I see that the macroeconomics grew, what allows to many youths to wash cars in the streets. Of these schools of social washes the new man will be born, adapted to the new life. With the cloths they dry her would plate, one more product finishing is ready for delivery. Of cigarettes in the mouth change impressions.
- Do you know where the king is?
- I know! He is of visit deprived in the whites.
- He left us without light.
- My mother when she pays the bill, she claims that we were many days in the dark, and that the value to pay should decrease, but it is the opposite. She arises a lot.
- When the king returns we will be illuminated.
The economic growth is factual. A group of wolf cub floozy the development of the economy. In the children's of the prostitution precocious infantile surrender, they spare exaggeratedly the persecution of the werewolves.
In the entrance of a building it is heard metallic noise. One gushes of vertical water appears. A displeased youth wants to know that happens.
- Mingo, because it is that you made this?!
- I broke the faucet with a stone, because they don't want to give me the key of the padlock. I have cars to wash.
- And who will the flood clean?
- I don't know.
Two fast motorcycles pass in great speed. Without escape, the noise provokes headaches. The alarms of the parked cars shoot. I cover the ears with the fingers.
In the window of a building the conditioned air burns. The boobies at the distance rub shoulders. Some affirm with immense pride.
- It is well done! It is well done! They like to live at the buildings.
Image: Angola em fotos