A dream sequence.

I’m walking up a symmetric street with grey and salmon colored buildings, while the breeze sounds like Samuel Bean trilling a melody I’m building in my head. There’s a guy dressed in leather, like some kind of a locked in the eighties gigolo walking down in my direction, wearing Ray-Ban sunglasses even when the sky’s the greyest. He fades to white. Meanwhile, the song keeps being hummed like a pacific soundtrack of blankness.

Light shines again, as I left her hair and my lips slowly unglued from her neck. I stood there unreactive when I was stared at unexpected blue eyes. But the same security remained, as if I was being embraced by the only one who makes me feel safe. Somehow, I felt captivated by her hair’s infinite tones of blonde.

I looked around. I knew that bedroom. It belonged to my best friend’s younger brother, and they both stood there watching our two bodies wrapped in purple tissue. Not in that sick peeping tom way, but as if there was something common with our moans and exhalations of passionate carnality.

After we almost stop time, she sang: “Hey mom, there’s something in the backroom.” sounding like one of those dumb a cappella chipmunks versions we often come across with on Youtube. But it was strangely cute, as she curled up and uncurled herself in the tissue, while her dance made that purple become more and more transparent. She resembled a roman sculpture on a constant metamorphosis.

Then, she held my hand and took me to the bathroom. We looked at our reflex in the mirror and I realized how differently and mistakenly happy we were. She moistened her hair, grabbed a scissor and cut a gradient tuft.

Note: I despise wet hair.

She handed me the tuft and I grabbed it with indifference. I was rather peaceful with the situation. I couldn’t sense anything physical. There was just a gradient golden tuft in my hand. And then, it faded to white.

Fading in from white, there she danced with the purple tissue that came from the floor. I entered the room, walking on her, since she was part of the purple tissue that embraced her legs and rolled up her back and tightened up her breasts. I danced with her in twelve majestic lies.

Alarm clock – 9:20 a.m. - The first E chord from Tiago Bettencourt & Mantha’s “Canção Simples” sounds.
Even if I go away for a while, I always try to read your work. And you're the first person I look for when I return.

I don't feel like critiquing at the moment though. Forgive me.