![]() Sometimes, you stopped by the highway shoulder to inspect some roadkill that was run over by a car or by life. Every week, you two drove to town inside the beat-up Brasília once owned by your grandfather, to do groceries and bring the damn newspaper. He used to say that he started to buy them solely because he needed some to pack the animals to put them in the freezer before working on them, but you know it’s a lie. It’s even more pathetic that you hoped to find some comfort in it. You stare at the blurry letters, thinking how pathetic it must be to read about your zodiac sign, whether it is because you were conditioned or used to it, in the same pages rolled around your father’s cold body, now exposed in its nakedness on the granite table top by your side. The daily horoscope has amber-colored stains where the newspaper met the humidity of dead skin. In sewing, the inside is always entrails. ![]() ![]() Aries: There is always an end to a ball of yarn, no matter how infinite the thread might seem. ![]()
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