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luís soares

Blog do escritor Luís Soares

Dylan Furcall - Autonomous Sensory Meridian Response

You don’t have to pay taxes on your feelings. You don’t have to fill a bucket with snow. You don’t have to carry the bucket from Aunt Clover’s. You don’t have to let the critters out their cove. You don’t have to be dexterous, eclectic or bright. You don’t have to think “red powder” hundred-times-fast. You don’t have to slay maimed adversaries today. You don’t have to be such an asshole. You don’t have to arrange these by size, color, order or kind, like Dijon mustard. Your sinus

 

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ignites somewhere deep in the tropics. A yellow bird drops you a world’s smallest tundra, thoughtfully. All the landscape speeds back to its vanishing point. Are you ready for your induction?

 

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I ingratiate myself with electrical haircuts. In the house of forestry I learn from my disciple. In that which I invest, you’ll witness me invested. Were there another gesture I would know, having invented these sublimes.

 

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Are you a carpetbagger? Are you what they call modern art? Are you in cahoots with the rebels? Are you the rebels? Are you authorized to drive a motor vehicle? Are you aware of my condition? Are you, would you say, cat-friendly? Are you going to help me off this island? I’m a stranger, and it’s dark. Are you listening?

 

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Here’s a dream: George Clooney gets into a boating accident and wakes up in this meadow. Clooney, figuring himself to be marooned in the Pacific, finds a dry cave in which to sleep, takes to eating indigenous flora, etc. Trouble is he’s in Arkansas, on account of an elaborate scheme concocted by those who manage boating insurance. Now George has to piece together the evidence, such as the sun’s trajectory in relation to its zenith, why the locals talk so funny. It ends without him ever realizing the extent of his beguilement.