Aragmä

 Em um planeta distante, onde todos os seres são de cor púrpura e seus pêlos pubianos feitos de ouro, existia uma criatura muito peculiar. A idade já tomava conta de seu aspecto jovial. Sua pele já estava avermelhada e crespa. Seus pelos já não eram mais dourados e sim cor de prata.
 Ela vivia numa montanha muito alta e gelada (sem neve, só o frio torturante).
 Esquentava seu chá de areia do lago Hugio; - vermelho e brilhante, exatamente como o lago - também chorava, enquanto suas lágrimas caiam sob a chaleira e evaporavam no ar, como um suspiro turquesa.
 Fumava seu cachimbo feito de cedro enquanto as raízes de Mandrágora se carburavam lentamente.
 A janela tremia ao movimento do uivo dos ventos.
 - Por que os sopros estavam tão violentos? - perguntou-se em voz alta. De repente uma voz ativa e quente se instala no ambiente:
 - Inquietos.
 - Inquietos?! Quem disse isso?
 - Eu quis dizer que os sopros estão inquietos. - a voz retruca fervendo.
 - Quem é?! Quem é?! - gritou enquanto segurava um atame feito de chumbo.
 - Como pode se esquecer de mim? - choraminga ironicamente.
 - Bom, eu não lembro de ter convidado ninguém à minha residencia. - a criatura diz enquanto coça a cabeça de um jeito naíve.
 - Eu lhe conheço, Aragmä. Não vai me oferecer um pouco deste chá?
 - Seria maravilhoso se eu pudesse lhe ver, senhor...?
 - Vamos jogar um jogo?!
 - Eu estou começando a ficar amedrontada! - uma sombra toma conta da casa, envolvendo-a em escuridão.
 Dentro da fumaça negra, uma brilhante superfície de marfim se instala em sua frente. Uma capa envolvendo toda aquela alva estrutura é iluminada pela lamina de uma foice. E tudo que restara foram pêlos pubianos feitos de ouro.

Caterpillar and Alice

Caterpillar: Who... are... you?
Alice: Why, I hardly know, sir. I've changed so much since this morning, you see...
Caterpillar: No, I do not C, explain yourself.
Alice: I'm afraid I can't explain myself, you see, because I'm not myself, you know.
Caterpillar: I do not know.
Alice: I can't put it any more clearly, sir, because it isn't clear to me.

Significado verdadeiro de Boceta

Boceta: Uma caixinha oval usada para armazenar rapé.
- Tirado do dicionário aurélio.

The Cat - Art Work

 For this piece I used a scratching paper, a pin and it was based on a picture of my cat Ziggy. 

Spiderwebs of schizophrenia

Daddy was soaping his hands spotlessly clean, unnecessarily clean.
It was impossible to live with the quirks of a puritanical moralist.
At night, I could hear him in the basement, reading, exorcising resounding voice in the world itself. Maybe he had a plan to make me crazy: First, doping me. Then, holding me in dark rooms, just as he had done to my mother.
The parasite used to say that I killed her, but both of us knew that I hadn't had my hands dirty with blood.
Cost to believe that he did not realize my sobriety, I could not take a dose of hypnotic that night - because we were on a special day.
It was time to pray for my beloved mother in the white room, a locked room.
Every ten years, the psychopath release me to talk to her, in the same room where her body was buried. Ten years ago she asked me to release her, but the key was hanging on the neck of the old man.
Now my bare feet touched the ground already wet. Why was so red as well?
In an instant, I realized that the key was parked in my hand just as the dirty blood of my father, and liberty triumphant, gloriously decaying corpse of my mommy.

Paranoia - Art work.

This is one of my art works. Is based on cubism mixing analytical and synthetic techniques.
It is oil pastel that I used to make the colors.
The name of this piece is "Paranoia".
As you can see at the image, you can find four different faces in different directions, following some of the cubism characteristics. 
 

This is a vomit with rage

My eyes blur by the light, the target of the paper and gross darkness of my eyelids.
What a horror! My memory is also failing from time to time.
I observe the American patriotism is corrupting me, 'till my nostrils vomit due to shortness of breath. I wish I could shout from the top of my lungs and break this bubble of space that they have - Tearing out their shielded hearts, all blended with the flag of the US.
There is nothing wrong with being conservative. Unless...
Unless you only know a single reality, while the rest of the world is distorted by your eyes. But one thing I know; I see every day the blind patriotism of my teacher be passed to young people in history classes. In a world of my own, people would be taught to become free thinkers, cosmopolitans. Children would learn to have a critical mind, understanding your own reality and all the others around you, so everyone would be able to express themselves - We would be hungry for the raw truth of life.
When you live in the United States, it's like living in a country of porcelain dolls. They are all well done, all perfectionists, but inside they are full of greed, pride and shit. (I'd like to say that not all Americans are like that, I'm generalizing*)

*General:
- Believe that U.S. troops are in Afghanistan to help the presumed "civil war" of them.
- Believe it was right to drop two atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki because the Japanese were supposedly "butchering China."
- To think that U.S. is the only grown country in the world.
- Put teenagers against communism/socialism
- Believe that was a choice/decision of the United States to lose the Vietnam War.