In the unsuspected way every city is worth its concrete,
Every day I wAke up a privileged black American, with the smell of aloe and gin on me.
I am always following the dirt into what most of my freedom is.
Guided by the hills into lofty spaces to echo my senses, I am troublingly thankful for what my dollar leaves me leftover.
Since everyone speaks numbers, the girl leaves salesmen with more than what their signs have written as a silent atonement for her surplus.
She takes some cooked shrimp with lime; A single strawberry a man puts next to her cheek; Pastel de carne drenched in an orange sauce the cook tells her to be careful with.
She soaks her lips in cane juice, all on the corner of Praça General Osorio where the trucks carry fresh fish, look like from the Satoyama region.