Who among us will pick up the remains of the city that screams and overflows? Photography is no longer enough. The image, yes. The image is like a broken mirror: it bleeds and relieves at the same time. It depends on who is in front of him, on the mirror where the image does not lie. The face of a city (São Paulo) is like an open book, as fatal as a wave in the sea, as deep as nostalgia on a Sunday. On the other side (Ilha Do Marajó) those inside place the sofa at the doors of the streets to talk to the comets, making sure that the unidentified flying objects do not dominate the buffaloes. Even within the metropolis, consumption is confused with fortune and abandonment. Whatever it takes. An open book can change from moment to moment. Lindo Sonho Delirante is not pronunciation. It is existence. It crosses the line between soot and ocean. It’s like a portrait. A verdict with a waterproof look. (DM)

Where are the others? How many steps forward will the next me fall? In front of the window, the reflection disappears. Between violence and passion the city oozes. Photography is no longer enough. The image, yes. Fine coitus, transparency. The fallen body has a first and last name. When the color explodes inside the house of others there is a breath, one because echoing in the bone of the burning forest. On this side, the concrete warms its memory embedded in the walls, on the edges of the viaducts where each birth certificate will always be a sentence for the following night. On TV screens the demons cry out for tragedies. In the wake of the clouds the storm approaches: the hours on earth do not belong to others. Man is not a commodity, an existence package. Man on earth is a beast with eyes, desire and hunger. (DM)

“Come God”, say the others. On the plaster of the walls the letters of the city must explode, splash. Those who write may fall from the twenty-third floor. The exits are blocked. of the nocturnal sea: cloths, times, beds, myths. Everything millimetrically installed: the jaguar, the vulva, the crying, the risk, the nothing. In the man who sees the truth escapes. The photograph is no longer enough. The image, yes. On the page turned, the dog barks because its owner slammed the door. It’s always like that. Some always abandon others. On the purple wall, the father, the mother, the children printed on the yellowed paper. All the same, every day, in front of from the warm wind of the pink fan. In disconnected time the only way out will be to listen. See, my pulse still has a heartbeat. God’s silence is distressing, it hurts. (DM)

The man who fell regains his senses. The bronze on the sphinx’s face has sooty skin. Both feet on the ground do not contaminate cigarette butts. The city oozes. On the other side, at the other end of the freshwater bay, all the saints fall asleep in their hammocks while their children spy the stars, one by one, counting on their fingers, in the dry leaves, in the clean corners, in the carnivals. On this side, in the city where time doesn’t growl, the man who lives plummeting into the bowels of the viaduct spits words in chunks, in bundles, between his teeth. His house is a border between gray and gray. His flesh trembles as each car moves up the lane. Some people talk about human rights. No merchandise. Man on earth is a beast with eyes, uneasy peace, greed. When the book is opened, everything will be in transit. (DM)

All images of Lindo Sonho Delirante were captured in São Paulo, Belém and Ilha do Marajó: Salvaterra, Joanes, Soure and Cachoeira do Arari, between 2018 and 2019