Duff and Scuff

Hello I’m Duff, one of them siamese brothers who happens to have been gently cut off from his soul mate. Scuff is the soul in question; he’s nice and smart, he reads japanese poetry and cooks like Sunday morning. We used to spend the night-time discussing our fuzzy and half-darken relationship.

Now for what the Thunder In Me said:

Scuff, you’re a monster, a good monster I say. The sort of monsters the Romans did not have the chance to get to know (godlessness and pitonization is our fate – our guts utter nonsense, our guts divine), all of them having been put to death at the top of those cliffs so full of unmelted snow, miles away from the Aventine. You understand? For I’m no monster at all. I can’t read japanese and I’m not a damn fag. Remember the times we used to write to each other? Long letters to one’s own siamese brother, damn it. Yours always carefully written, correct, stylish, mine uneducated and gross (which humiliates me). I’m not angry, though. But do you get it, the reason we never fought? And out of the blue this cutting off, this division so much of  joy deprived, this shameful divorce. What did happen, Scuff? Why the decision, why the derision? The contract which never existed has been breached.

So close, faraway. Our secret deeper than the secret which separates two complete strangers.

Postado por julio lemos, postado em 4 de fevereiro de 2010 at 15:25, filed under Contos. Faça bookmark de permalink. Siga os comentários RSS feed for this post.