III.

“I fucking hate sundays”

So, there was this little baby dog. I found him on the door way at 2 o’clock in the morning when i opened the door to receive someone else. I saw him, he was sleeping there on the door’s red carpet, and then i shut the door itself.

On the tuesday morning i remembered the whole last week, it had been full with signals i did not care to see, i didn’t pay attention, ’cause we weren’t paranoiac about fatality since 1994, it was so unexpected now, but it was always there. I though this year would be different, i thought it was going to be good, turned out it wasn’t going to be that way.

…

Sunday at noon,
i just closed my eyes full of tears,
i wanted to explote,
trade places,
let it be me.
He couldn’t, but he did.

I denied myself to believed it

…

Monday afternoon, it was all gone, he took our hearts and lets us just these rotten bodies. He just had to check out.

…

So, here we had this little baby dog who appeared to the door one Monday afternoon. Who had a rotten face, i dare to say he was dead for a few days. I called him Omar, because of an old funny inside anecdote, he just stared at us while we used alcohol and some white dust to try to clean him up. He didn’t said a word, not one. He just listened and stared trying to find out if everyone was fine, alive, so he would rest in peace, once and for all, he just had to make sure. And then it was us who, on a Tuesday night, who made him take the cab for the second time.

He left when he was needed the most.

Twice.

…

…

..

.

“I feel like everything’s rotten. I… I’m just broken hearted”