Sunday, 3 May, 2009. 7:25pm. Once again, I am faced with my curse, which is to write. about? who knows? some kind of confidence or confession? an ellaboration of a political theory which is going to save the world? conspiracy theories? Maybe not.
Botafogo has lost another chance to prove that they are the best team in Rio de Janeiro. Yet again.
The streets will be packed and stuffed with frantic fans revelling and grovelling in the dirt, democracy is won, the people's champion comes back home again with its prize and laurels. The gates to the city are opened, dancers voluptously semi-naked will spring forth and surround their heroes, clouds of smoke and fireworks, the drums beat to the one heartbeat of the throbbing crowd, silencing the slightest thought to bear and stand.
The defeated are dragged to the main square for public mockery, being spat and pissed upon. No quarter for the down beat.
No such thing as second best or runner - up. Why keep running for it anyway?
Winning - at all cost, by all means. Winning, and sticking the sword down the foe's throat... howl fiercely at the sight of blood, tear the no-man's heart out and watch it beat warmly and gradually gradually wane into ash.
Ash and dust. Memories of the beginning and the end. I cover myself with coal and ash, these have always been my colours, I mourn the gone days and sit by the door, expecting the lights to go out - they always will - and shiver in the cold air, night will bring me power, night will bring me justice, dignity.
