Fallen — the man, as the descending motorcycle reached the floor in between shouts of oh, no and never and I thought of how they’ll never know how the strawberry fields are forever. All a matter of unity of time and unity of action, the whatever knowing and writing is. As a matter of fact, let me assure you: there were fruit everywhere, the ripe bananas and the nonstop papayas and the glistening starfruit and the flaming lips tangerines and the one pineapple, all dusted for prints by the only forensic instrument God has, which is dirt, and I believe that to be the reason why we each grow from mud — for Him to keep tracks.
   It’s not so much, though, the movement of uppers and downers what fascinates (fascinum, to arouse, to lift up) a writer though. To be written in action as fact and falsehood show themselves is the true agal of a person cursed by the evil of words. An old man looking at the downing of fruit can tell one about the scene I witnessed with greater factual residue. Not my job nor my interest. A writer must, first, paint the image of the reader with his desired (desiderare, which is believed to come from de sidere, referring to “from whatever the stars will bring”) colors and cut one into the any shape, even celestial or phallic. To convince as a way to become and then allow and allay one to see what eyes must witness and skin must testify.
  Good heavens, screamed the old man at the waste: fruit all over the floor as the other one, fallen from the start, either dying, dead, sleeping or gone, lay in the image of my mind. As the car came to the corner, I was sure I’d never know.
  Turning ahead, I heard:
  — E onde caralhos foi parar Francisco? A moto dele está no chão!