my niece tried to grab the kettle as it fell from the stove, she feared loud noises more than anything else and didn't want it to hit the floor with a crash or a bang or whatever sound a kettle does whenever it falls down on the ground. she stood there, quietly, not moving, for five or six hours, her skin burning and melting and aching of the hot metal. she said she felt like a flower made of fire and magma and we all agreed.
she moved into the center of the room, slowly, as the rest of us sat down around her and lit our cigarettes, filled up our glasses with brandy and red wine and this or that type of liqueur. someone said they were too old to consider understanding the thoughts of Camus; she nodded in agreement and whispered "we're too old". by then, blood was dripping from her scalded hands and the cat was lapping it up off of her shoes. the woman beside me said she should probably put the kettle down, and she did just that. at that time, the kettle had cooled down, so she placed it on the table and went into the bathroom to tend to her injuries.
i distinctly remember feeling love waning away, time lapsing, people falling asleep while my niece washed the dishes and smiled at me. then she sat down and poured herself a glass of brandy, the cat jumped onto her lap and started licking her badly burnt left hand. we're too old and Camus is dead, whatever his thoughts were they don't matter much anymore.
sou capaz de sobreviver à dor e viver sozinho durante um ou dois milénios mas custa-me ter de me arder tudo, tudo ter de se consumir numa violência de incêndio
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