TE19 Iberian Adventure

My Plague Diary

The stomach gets up each new morning and says: I want.

A piece of news. Trans sex workers in Brazil are hungry and in ever greater danger. Without work, without customers, and without any support from the State, of course.

They’re desperate. They run away from us even more than they used to, they say. Nobody comes to our house.

Iwant, says thestomach.Monday, Tuesday,Wednesday, Thursday, Friday, Saturday and Sunday.

Fireflies should be protected.

And counting them is another kind of nocturnal statistic that ought to be restored in the same way that the most beautiful ruined buildings are restored.

Making a statistic in the dark, a statistic with eyes closed.

“If I don’t have sex, I’ll starve,” says one trans prostitute in Brazil.

Lisbon day without clouds, neither light ones nor dark.

Jeri, thegoldenretriever,hasgotthetimetoperfecthermelancholy, and she’s making the most of it.

And Roma is fine, the unsettled and restless Roma still has her wound but she is firm.

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