The rode not taken

Two roads diverged in a yellow wood,
And sorry I could not travel both
And be one traveler, long I stood
And looked down one as far as I could
To where it bent in the undergrowth;
Then took the other, as just as fair,
And having perhaps the better claim,
Because it was grassy and wanted wear;
Though as for that the passing there
Had worn them really about the same,

And both that morning equally lay
In leaves no step had trodden black.
Oh, I kept the first for another day!
Yet knowing how way leads on to way,
I doubted if I should ever come back.

I shall be telling this with a sigh
Somewhere ages and ages hence:
Two roads diverged in a wood, and I-
I took the one less traveled by,
And that has made all the difference.

Robert Frost

Talvez seja mentira. Nunca se irá saber.

Sexo

Sexo é como a obra de arte. Não é uma obra de arte, é a obra de arte.
A arte despegada mas dependente de um corpo, outro.
Aquele cujo o meu não toca pois é como Ícaro,
Voando muito alto queima as asas antes de chegar ao sol.
É aquele mito, é aquela fábula. Não é um mito ou uma fábula.
Obra catedrática de capa de barro, coisa.
Estanque. Matéria.
Sexo é... Arte.