Cars advance in our direction; here lies the contemporary epic. Ithaca on the corner, Odysseus the peddler reading an ad stuck on the ground. Breeze of horns dazzling him, attracting him to the rush and the grind. From the synagogue slogans in the multitude of anonymous faces. He is the transubstantiated hero of other eras, or an ivy plugging the middle of things with what its steel flora, voracity, reveals: there is no silence, lights trace lines of flight, your fleeting face behind the glass, stain of detail, discharge. Everything proceeds by flux and accumulation. Life proliferates, neon-lights of convenience stores, you under eternal vigilance, and the images, the images. Minutes beg to be consumed like one more commodity (impossibility) so you’ve got to be quick, so that death has no way to deaden the interruptions that scar it until it bleeds so that truth doesn’t have time to install its lion of geraniums, its leaves of grass and vision. Think of Now and a whole network installs itself in your brain. This perfume coming from the window display recalls an idea, and shatters in the instant necessary for time to stop.

Rodrigo Garcia Lopes (Translated by Marco Alexandre de Oliveira)





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