Everyone has a twin somewhere. Like a child
given up at birth, I look for my features
wherever I go. Doppelganger, you could be
on your way down High Street to the carryout
or in a village in Newfoundland. I know the luck
you bring, but I can’t stop seeking you out
like radio waves transmitting concentric circles—
a ticker tape of o-mouths spooling. Other self,
I want to project myself to where you are.
I want to float beside you and trace your shape
with my finger, like drawing a line on a bottle
of liquor. But you won’t feel me ruffling
your hair. You won’t look at me. You only echo
my movements, a sleepwalker. Other doer,
with you around, everything is slightly off,
like when Dylan went electric. The hours are
striped with light as yellow as old newspapers;
the moon is grainy as an obituary photograph.
Not quite a door, I stand ajar. I’m two places
at once. I’m watching a movie, but the person
playing me isn’t acting. Double walker,
you’re not so bad. You don’t have red eyes
and a black, v-shaped uni-brow like most
evil twins. But you won’t look my way. You speak
but not to me. Your voice, which is mine,
crackles like a phone call from another country.
by Maggie Smith
The White Stripes - 'Seven Nation Army'
Podes riscar todas as portas do meu carro!!!! OK!
Mas esta história acaba aqui.
CANSADA!
faz o teu pior!!! Mas EU SEI. Eu sei!
