Lady cuckold pain

 

To go to bed early or not to sleep at all.

It's raining and it's cold. The house wails and groans, the branches stick to the sturdy structure. There is no other way than the clash. Ice that immortalizes weeds and wind that screams Winter in a slimy agony of dawn. The animals sleep in the wooden house, no longer with a door, worn out by the usefulness of years, guarding artifacts and artifices, chairs and tables from a hot summer, which we would like to resurrect. Tempus fugit. I imagine my city, at this hour already full of traffic, horns and requests for tolerance, buses full of people with bulging eyes, of remittances, guys without gum, no gum, no freshness, run, people in sneakers and shorts, trench coats and umbrellas or umbrellas in puddles of water, against signboards, without warning, they dawned, grew old, going to work, against the grain, clueless and not even a list of yellow pages to consult, by your fingers

And the phone rings:

-What is the phrase, the music, the request?

And the customer, distracted, clicks on the tobacco machine command and swims - Look, today is Friday, forget the toast and jam and bring me just coffee. 

The music invades, occupies, intones, resonates and softens the mood! What a horror, if now this turned the estates into an airport room environment, the yogurt on the next table, the bagasse on the counter, the newspaper ah, always the newspaper with the news of centuries ago it continues to get dirty in the hands of others and the gentleman on the scooter leaves, I don't know him, but I know he exists and I put on his kispo. From inside out and it's from inside out to inside out, from shudder to shudder, that doesn't iron the branch, I don't lay down and I don't sleep or fall asleep and maybe I can ask for a new cimbalino by the way, and once again I close myself, I close myself in the eclaire with cutlery that the servant brought:"And what did the girl say?"- that I'm going to be cured, I'm going to stop going pastry shops and terraces, ghetto towns, stop living past lives, and no more complaining, I'm going to fall asleep. 

-First, I want the little song if you please.

And when the day is high, you continue to produce, I am startled, on the asphalt-blanket, you, working on the stress and emptiness of a hidden future, perhaps without love, already well entrenched, with your coffee already drunk, you talk to the maid, girlfriend. On account

 Of that, you forget the toast and I I'm going to be stocked up on nicotine, caffeine, diesel with additives, seeing you with the girl next to you, pain from soul to soul, that's what the heart is like and you can't see?

Now, see my luck, that I'm worse than a poor man's hat! Even Abrunhosa ruminates on what my prose, my pen, my fate will be, and tells foreigners that

- If you go to Porto, sneak out of the city and get on the A4, go north, go to Sapo!

Tired of watching me rain, there he sent me the request from Late November to the now, as I'm getting ready, he call the girl blue and already in my room, i open the curtains, without fear, from the day of insomnia i get into bed, smoke the cigarette while listening to the band bringing me the cradle to my wounds.