Some are more of the time. Others, more of space. Most of the space they put us with the face in the wall, Flattened on a screen, kneaded against a flower, Dominated by ornament attack in close-up. Those of time flee, of course, according to their own courses. They do not care about our imprisonment game. And barely respond to our embarrassed fulfillment: Good morning, long shadow of anamorphosis in bloom! Good morning, shadow-vacuum the obstacle under the jumper! Good morning, metallic glow in the path of the Japanese girl! In fact, they all make noise. Whether they are blooming flowers, blossom blossoms, Flaming flags, snaking carnivals, sunny crackling or crowding. Noises that are born with the noises that make everything be seen, the sounds of the painter. Your game of push scrub scrub kneads scrape trails: Srrrrrrr! Rshhhhh! Kffffff! Xslhhhh! Lhsçççççç! Vwhhhhhh! It is a percussion that intertwines with the distracted whistling of the Japanese lady; And fold in the screen hinge ranger; And sneaks between horse and rider at the moment of the jump. In fact, in all the soft-heartedness he orchestrated the afflicted scion. In all of them, it was the urgency that burst out of the viscous color these trembling ex- stamens. These solarized portraits of our festive crush.

HILTON BERREDO
Rio de Janeiro, 2003

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