Given the weeping, free and self-indulgent in this blog of mine, I think an attempt to try to bring some thematic coherence, aesthetic, ideological and personal at this point would only make more evident its character as trash.
time of writing on paper, the paper was an essential element. It ended up discarded hundreds of ideas that finally convinced us or we were not able to address the way we thought was right. Balls of paper, ribbons, studs and cigarette butts that we emptied the ashtray at regular intervals. It was the destination of couples abandoned by the Muses and after being fucked evil, ugly ideas of dance which also did not know to click and send him to ass the whole party. The basket in ending the shit we had to clear to reach what he called someone "own voice."
The problem is that finding one's voice requires more of ourselves than perhaps we are willing to accept. With one's voice always happens that when we finally get to hear we find it ugly. Is it true that I have that voice? It must be the recording, which distorts. So many times our voice, the authentic, it ended precisely in the paper, wrinkled, torn into pieces.
I am committed to making public My menstrual diary, so I made my blog a graveyard of abandoned projects before birth. Mine is a voice that I like it too, but like my wife loves me and I just do not understand why, maybe someone can have fun with some of my ideas abandoned. If I may, to read, may feel compelled to pick up and out. Be that as it is something I'm excited to do.
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