Chat Noir writes with rage clenched between its teeth, a distorted pulse, spitting out syllables like blood in an alley, in the fever of a body stitched together in haste-badly patched pieces and raw pornography dripping from the pages. Love burns acidic on the tongue: animal tang, traces of stepped-on shit and dried-up wine on poor floorboards. Cecília collapses and stumbles by, Paulo Pinto lets out a choked grunt in the corner of failure. Desire presses up against fear, sweaty, hitchhiking on the verge of nonsense-the next page is an abandoned street.Forget any idea of a story-only scars...