Fragment in the house near to the zoo wall

 When I finally met him in Salvador, I was somewhat captivated by the nomadic splendor he radiated. It was already 2016, and it was a large mansion in an upscale neighborhood very close to the beach, the back of which, where K's studio-suite was located, overlooked the Bahia Zoo and the Governor's Palace.

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On K's desk, erudition and sophistication reigned, everything redolent of the beach and gourmet bistros. In his manuscripts and drafts, deeply felt actions and existential satisfactions, consummated and forgotten pleasures, took on new life in a rediscovered literary dimension of time. Quoting a writer named William Faulkner, K justified his literary line of that period as follows: "A talisman that gives me powers, not of wisdom or wealth, but of the ability to pass from the scene of one rare and difficult-to-imagine pleasure to another, without intermission, fatigue, or satiety."

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the perfectly logarithmic narrative spiral and the growing "cameras" within the characters.

Struggling to adjust to her presence and the ambiance of the house next to the zoo, I remembered in rapid succession crayon scribbles with kindergarten letters, Juiz de Fora on a long rainy night, after arriving from New York wanting to write MANHATTAN, poems stuck with magnets to a refrigerator door, my half-painted canvases, locked away on the beach every summer; hastily rented rooms, perfect collages of texts, haikus written with a crow's quill; books cut out during a certain Christmas; Joana, Sabrina, Beatriz, Carmen, Isabel, and others; this cardboard circus under my desk that no one knows who made.

---How's your ex-wife, K(?)---, she asked me. ----Joana (?), she is now a charming, upper-crust white woman who draws her spirit from some books we read together in that immense penthouse (: everyone who paints ''sees'' something in Mallarmé(.. while Sabrina, who never reads anything, has truly become ''someone'' (.) ----, but Julia didn't know who I was talking about.