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❝ The river flows quietly, the girl is there watching the leaves gently floating downstream, they are yellow, green, or amber. The girl is wearing a long skirt. The edges of the skirt are now dirty. A gentle breeze caresses the few old elms left. The girl cannot smile, the smile has disappeared from her face. Only the sound of a sad guitar. Only that sound is her playmate. She thinks she wants to die. She doesn't know if this thought is true or a product of her naivety. She just thinks that what she wants is to die. Everything in her is blues. The good old blues played by those colorful ladies of two centuries ago. The blues that black nannies used to play and sing to those white children with rosy and healthy cheeks and clothes made of lace and frills. She has a photo in her hand. It's a picture of her beloved. He has gone far away, and it's uncertain if he will return to kiss those little pink lips or look into those eyes that turn gray at sunset. The girl has headphones on. Inside the headphones is sad music. The same sound of those sad guitars. The only playmate. At the edge of the river, a catalpa.
❝ A voice like Lady Holiday who has eaten a fisherman and a somewhat brushed drum, a choked jazzy rhythm.
❝ that delicate voice, streaked with a secret unease.
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