And from the bowels of the city comes the carnival. In this voracious and merciless city with the name of a saint (Sao Paulo). His deafening scream is an invitation to the consummation of desires, an encounter with your rawest nature, an encounter, with no return, to the encounter itself.

And if the city has an orgasm, it's Carnival. An uncontrollable burning impulse. A chant that echoes your pains, dreams and desires in the same chord. A rainbow that makes colors a disguised reason for being everything that one can be.

And its disharmony leads us to the intensity of its contradictions, extrapolating the limits of expressive freedom and the repression of civic morality.

And in frenetic rhythm and contagious energy, the sweat is shared and emotions are converted into gestures, touches, kisses and flow. A steady flow. Neglecting sobriety and moderation.

And its visceral resourcefulness is revealed in this mimetic space of epiphanic confluences, giving support to the pain offered by the world.

And the symbology at its peak mixes chrism with sin, idols with delusions, whips with wreaths, so that then, just like that, the pair of horns of a harmless demon shares the kiss of an unsuspecting nun until the red lipstick smeared the lips and neck completely.

And Macunaíma starts to smile, seeing deviations become virtues of the soul by leaving everything that is uncomfortable, a little bit more comfortable.

And gulp by gulp I penetrate this delirium, possessed by the promises of breaking this opaque reality that oppresses us.

And thus, I went there. I went to sing through the carnival. I went to hold hands with what was previously unknown. I went in the sun, I went in the rain, I went on the asphalt.

"I went on the asphalt, pick up trash, catch crabs, talk to vultures."