《 o som das máquinas rasgava o dia e ele mal conseguia ouvir seus próprios pensamentos. erguido a vinte e nove metros de altura, gostava de delirar sustentado pelos cabos. lembrava do céu de casa pela telha de vidro que rompia a continuidade das telhas-barro, ilumiando o centro da copa. o som das máquinas era mais alto que o som da lembrança e do sonho. como se o corpo sonoro da cidade tomasse forma em cada centímetro vago que desaba na ponta de uma escavadeira. 'onde se viu escavar tanto uma terra sem fundo?', como se a cidade emanasse um único zumbido frenético e inquietável, como um manto pesado, denso. a coxa queimava com a corda azul quadriculada enquanto o cavalete rangia no último andar sustentando seu corpo. mal conseguia ouvir seus próprios pensamentos mas uma frase resistia, onde o enlace do capacete tensionava o topo da cervical: 'SoulRio, bom pra morar, perfeito pra investir.' tensionava as palavras testando as infinitas prosódias, enquanto o balanço do vento lhe lembrava Muriaé. o topo das montanhas, um ipê amarelo, a grama quieta. o som das máquinas era mais alto que o som da lembrança e do sonho. pendendo no intervalo de janelas, virou o corpo, torcendo a fiação que lhe sustentava, revelando a imensidão de prédios do abismo a frente. com os olhos comprimidos pelas mil luzes refletidas das janelas espelho-esverdeadas, deitou a cabeça em suas próprias mãos. sentia o vento leve se intensificando e subitamente o som dos maquinários se aquietando e aquietando. o zumbido refletido nos mil vidros começava a se contorcer numa espécie de silêncio não mais na vida de fora mas dentro de sua caixa torácica. seu corpo vibrava o som do mundo. oco. o ruído entre os prédios se emudeceu completamente. o corpo se contorcia, como quem matava uma fome de vida. de olhos fechados, rosto apoiado sobre a mão, o corpo perdeu seu peso. numa semi-flutuância, o ser se contorcendo com o estrondo do mundo guardado entre o fígado e o pulmão, despencou no sono. em um sono profundo, no silêncio da cidade e numa vastidão interna barulhenta das ferragens e dos assovios sem fim. enfim, o som dos sonhos era mais alto que o som das máquinas. 》
*translation at the bottom of the page
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[ENG]
《the sound of the machines tore the day apart, and he could barely hear his own thoughts. lifted twenty-nine meters high, he liked to drift into delirium, held up by the cables. he remembered the sky at home through the glass tile that broke the continuity of the clay shingles, lighting the center of the canopy. the sound of the machines was louder than the sound of memory and of dream. as if the city’s sonic body took shape in every vacant centimeter collapsing under the tip of an excavator. ‘who ever heard of digging so deep into a bottomless land?’, as if the city emanated a single frantic, unstill hum, a heavy, dense mantle. his thigh burned against the blue checkered rope while the scaffold creaked on the top floor, holding up his body. he could barely hear his own thoughts, but one phrase persisted, right where the helmet’s clasp strained the top of his spine: ‘SoulRio, good to live in, perfect to invest.’ he tightened the words, testing their endless prosodies, while the sway of the wind reminded him of Muriaé. the mountaintops, a yellow ipê, the quiet grass. the sound of the machines was louder than the sound of memory and dream. hanging in the gap between windows, he turned his body, twisting the wiring that held him, revealing the immensity of buildings falling away before him. with his eyes squeezed by a thousand lights reflected in the greenish mirror-windows, he laid his head into his own hands. he felt the light wind intensifying, and suddenly the sound of the machinery quieting and quieting. the hum reflected in the thousand panes began contorting into a kind of silence no longer outside, but inside his ribcage. his body vibrated with the world’s sound. hollow. the noise between the buildings fell completely mute. his body curled, like someone feeding on a hunger for life. eyes closed, face resting on his hand, his body lost its weight. in a half-floating state, the being twisting with the crash of the world stored between his liver and lung, he dropped into sleep. into deep sleep, in the city’s silence and within an inner vastness loud with metalwork and endless whistles. at last, the sound of dreams was louder than the sound of the machines.》
《the sound of the machines tore the day apart, and he could barely hear his own thoughts. lifted twenty-nine meters high, he liked to drift into delirium, held up by the cables. he remembered the sky at home through the glass tile that broke the continuity of the clay shingles, lighting the center of the canopy. the sound of the machines was louder than the sound of memory and of dream. as if the city’s sonic body took shape in every vacant centimeter collapsing under the tip of an excavator. ‘who ever heard of digging so deep into a bottomless land?’, as if the city emanated a single frantic, unstill hum, a heavy, dense mantle. his thigh burned against the blue checkered rope while the scaffold creaked on the top floor, holding up his body. he could barely hear his own thoughts, but one phrase persisted, right where the helmet’s clasp strained the top of his spine: ‘SoulRio, good to live in, perfect to invest.’ he tightened the words, testing their endless prosodies, while the sway of the wind reminded him of Muriaé. the mountaintops, a yellow ipê, the quiet grass. the sound of the machines was louder than the sound of memory and dream. hanging in the gap between windows, he turned his body, twisting the wiring that held him, revealing the immensity of buildings falling away before him. with his eyes squeezed by a thousand lights reflected in the greenish mirror-windows, he laid his head into his own hands. he felt the light wind intensifying, and suddenly the sound of the machinery quieting and quieting. the hum reflected in the thousand panes began contorting into a kind of silence no longer outside, but inside his ribcage. his body vibrated with the world’s sound. hollow. the noise between the buildings fell completely mute. his body curled, like someone feeding on a hunger for life. eyes closed, face resting on his hand, his body lost its weight. in a half-floating state, the being twisting with the crash of the world stored between his liver and lung, he dropped into sleep. into deep sleep, in the city’s silence and within an inner vastness loud with metalwork and endless whistles. at last, the sound of dreams was louder than the sound of the machines.》
