Though the weather is far from good today, you woke up feeling fine: for
the last eight nights you’ve had dreams with empty buildings, but not today, guess you’re free from
this discomfort, yes, free from this one.
At work I thought I heard your voice coming from a small hole on a corner of a wall, the
wall was made of cardboard but not you I
thought I heard you confess “I’ve always had trouble keeping my nails short, less a matter of
negligence then fear of removing pieces of my body”.
This morning you stand looking at the window the city is quiet the city feels abandoned by
everyone you can see her head resting on the 27 bones of her hands you consider for a second you
consider reaching to her ear and confessing, you too, your lies “those empty buildings they never
left, can’t possibly learn how, I think I’m scared, have always been”
You never liked harmonicas, “it sounds like distant animals”, yesterday
you carried a fish in your hands, “so I’ll have someone to confess”, did it work?
After the first broken bone, obviously juvenile, right leg, bike accident, “you have to be more
careful in life my boy”, how. After the first broken bone, every other sin came by very easily.
Kept this from you: you talk in your sleep. Last night
insects around the lamp, summer air, damp, dense, distant breeze somewhere, not here; couldn’t
sleep of course. 3 A.M heard you say “I need a map.”
“a map of what is tangible. I need a map.”
Frederico Prado is an university student living in Campinas, SP - Brazil, where he was born and raised. He writes both in his native language and in English. Though he very rarely speaks English and never had any formal education in it, he is interested in the immense cultural plurality contained in the language. He feels simultaneously distant and close to this culture. He tries to express this in his writing.