Brazil is crumbly, like thoughts, loves, palavers, movements, the earth gullied by the rains and the insecure brick-sheds of the favellas. On this far too huge territory, the eye floats without ever knowing how to land. Only few signs direct it. Everywhere huge trenches going nowhere are being dug by bulldozers. The vastness of territories, like the inter-breeding of faces add enclosures impossible to be federated.
Tropical nature opens itself and closes to whoever comes close.
It is plentiful, it shares, wraps up, and dismisses. Its generosity begets an infinite sadness. Brazil can't be confronted, one flees from it or consents in the same way as the mind is defeated by matter and the primitive energy of life. Saints here have hair. They strike a pose and simper.