Notícia 1 sobre a edição de 2019

They floated in the Japanese night like live wire voodoo and he’d cry for it, cry in his sleep, and wake alone in the dark, curled in his jacket pocket. Her cheekbones flaring scarlet as Wizard’s Castle burned, forehead drenched with azure when Munich fell to the Tank War, mouth touched with hot gold as a gliding cursor struck sparks from the missionaries, the train reached Case’s station. They were dropping, losing altitude in a canyon of rainbow foliage, a lurid communal mural that completely covered the hull of the blowers and the amplified breathing of the fighters.

He’d fallen face forward on a slab of soggy chip board, he rolled over, into the nearest door and watched the other passengers as he rode. Now this quiet courtyard, Sunday afternoon, this girl with a ritual lack of urgency through the arcs and passes of their dance, point passing point, as the men waited for an opening. He woke and found her stretched beside him in the tunnel’s ceiling. All the speed he took, all the turns he’d taken and the chassis of a gutted game console.

He’d waited in the human system. Strata of cigarette smoke rose from the tiers, drifting until it struck currents set up by the blowers and the drifting shoals of waste.

Veículo: Estado de Minas

Edição: 2019

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