Collection of texts by Teresa Santos present in Cordel, both in pamphlets and in performance, in their most varied forms. Sometimes explicit through the voice, sometimes present in a gesture, sometimes omitted.
In summer, the body knows pause. Pause.
I open the window on this warm night. A paraphernalia of light and sound settles in this frame. You are lying in bed and you are sleepy, so you don't see it. You ask me if it is beautiful. I don't know, it is happening right behind the trees. The heat has postponed the fire. Even a Monday can be a fire day. There are things that cannot be postponed. One. Two. Three. Silence and heavy breathing.
All the outer layers try to seduce you, buy you, convince you, provoke you, excite you, control you, consume you, invade you, alienate you, until, finally, they defeat you.
There is an open window that does not close. A breeze that disturbs the endless view. Beyond, in infinity, the tangible dream is subject to the impermanence of days and nights. Time passes, absorbed in the illusion of being. Desire fades and there is a window that closes.
Golden waves inhabited by reverent suns cross our path. Swift breezes roll across the hot, endless asphalt towards their destination. Micro universes shaped in this peninsular desert are oases of color and life. Dry valleys flow between almost green giants. Time drags on at the pace of a tired body. Today, for today, we walk our path, together. The Saramagos are left behind and leave us longing for things as familiar as they are unknown. Hidden places melt and fade, leafy, within the beating chest. Have we arrived?