caos

Minha cabeça estremece com todo o esquecimento e
tento dizer como tudo é outra coisa...
H.H.


...the bottles, the bottles, the beautiful bottles of tequila, and the gourds, gourds, gourds, the millons of gourds of beautiful mescal... The Consul sat very still. His conscience sounded muffled with the roar of water. How indeed could he hope to find himself to begin again when, somewhere, perhaps, in one of those lost or broken bottles, in one of those glasses, lay, forever, the solitary clue to his identity? How could he go back and look now, scrabble among the broken glass, under the eternal bars, under the oceans?
Stop! Look! Listen! How drunk, or how drunkly sober undrunk, can you calculate you are now at any rate?
Lowry, Under the Volcano