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syllable

Perhaps the gods might grant me a similar metaphor,
but then this account would become contaminated by literature, by fiction.
-J.L. Borges in Aleph

I remember long seasons in silence, lying on a sofa.
As I got up and entered the shower, perhaps because the brain changed its gravitational position, I started to hear syllables. Incomplete pieces of words hissed in distinct tones and timbres, symphony of an almost sentence.

The percussion of the falling water on the external wall of the cranium played, on the internal side, a sound diffusion event usual on aquatic means – listening to sound but not identifying its origin or sense. The phenomenon was mechanically reproducible – as I rose from the sofa, entered the shower, opened the tap, it restarted.

I concluded, in an almost scientific tone, that:
As I remained lying on the sofa syllables were raining in my head; raining in silence, piling in dyslexic muted ponds, in the space between the brain and the cranium.
When the water hit the cranium, the syllables, singularly animated by each drop, spoke their sound.

(ler em português)

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