words as photographs

I now equate falling in love to getting struck by lightning without access to a rod. It's not something you have any control over. The heavens choose you. You increase the odds of getting hit by dancing inside the cyclone. By getting ripped apart as sacrifice to Boreas. Getting so soaked there's no notion of where the flesh ends and the liquid begins. This treading of storm water, this hell of prevailing misery, this is the business of seeking love. Of catching lightning.

Esta é a versão superior do original de Vitorino. É irónico ter nesta versão aquela que considero a melhor música do álbum. Um exercício então: listar todos os sub-textos na letra, para que não eu me esqueça, e dois ou três de vocês também não. Consideremos o título que descreve toda a cena. É uma canção sobre um coronel que foi feliz em Monsanto...   

The character feels the need to love. There’s a constant and present need for him to hold a woman - any woman - in high regard. To adore and worship. The character is a man. The man is me. Why would this man allow himself this state of being? Because he is weak. Because he only values himself through the eyes of a woman who is in turn valued by him. He puts value into her, knowing she will give it back. But a single woman is not enough, nor will ever be. She will grow accustomed to his attention, as all beings do, and the value of the things he does will naturally decrease overtime. He will cut his losses, abandon her because the effort it takes for him to feel valued through her eyes is too great to bear. His only way out - my only way out - is to be able to value myself through my own eyes.