There is quite a bit of space in an election campaign

What campaign did we run, what did we “fight” for, what did we learn? My serene pessimism leads me to ask these and many other questions that lead to the book of Ecclesiastes. When Solomon, hypothetically speaking, concluded that there was nothing new under the sun, he had grown weary of the glory of wisdom. So, we did more of the same, fought for nothing, learned more ways of keeping our point of view. But, one minute, ladies and gentlemen. That is not how I see it today, despite the evidence.

This Friday, we end the stretches of party advertising, party alliances, the formation of political groups, the distribution of funds, electoral advertising, the printing of papers. We depart, until Sunday, for the moment one is in the air after an Olympic leap. What was given in impetus, what was given in bodily movements, what was given in preparation, was given. Now there is the wind of the news, the gravity of the churches, one or another synapse devoted to protecting the vital organs.

In the 2022 electoral set, more specifically among candidates and related figures, I found a whole man, a whole woman, perhaps a few more, but many living dead. That is, people who need a friend. Some years ago, almost twenty, at a formal meeting with the city’s artists, I laughed so hard at a joke that I spat red wine on well-dressed people, furniture, and even the dog. That was when Dudson said “you need a friend” while helping me clean up the mess, quickly taking me out of circulation for a moment.

I do not judge that I have stopped needing a friend. Not only do I need one, I have enough to be that friend to others. You may ask me “what did they spit on you, Sgarbe?” And it was nothing acid or deadly, but an old woman’s talcum breath. Personally, I love the smell of well-kept old ladies, my God, how an elegant older woman inspires me! But I refer to a certain smell of the stored away, of thick mold, of a colony of bacteria that can follow an old piece of beet, of every idea from the time of “hey there.” That was the bad stretch of running. But then I looked up.

A few hours after Webb sent us images of stars, I was passing through the pitch dark of Fabio’s farm toward the bank of the Ivaí River. At my friend’s urging, I looked up. And I felt totally alone before the Universe, except for the deep consciousness of God. The bright, multicolored points of the telescope were reproduced right there, before a flabby neck stretching toward the sky, with the naked eye. That was when I understood what my role in this year’s electoral communication would be. Fabio proposes, among other things, that Paraná encourage and sponsor the opening of regional-product stores in the metaverse. From stinking old politics to the digital future, on an unpretentious trip to the North.