As an intern, the first person I met at that newspaper was a white guy, half worn out, who whenever he entered the newsroom, he would leave, in the form of a smell, a huge tail with yawns of alcohol and light hairs of tobacco. He would always shout at the newsroom with his tongue on his chest and bark: "this is the front page and it sells a lot".

The editor, Trindade, with his head buried in the pit of the computer screen, would occasionally come back to life to shout, "Hey, trainee, buy me a cigarette around the corner. And I ran because I wanted to be important on the cover the editor was preparing. One day the editor Trindade found, on his desk, a small glass bottle with roots and a monkey skin wrapped around the neck.

He stared at the bottle with his waist, pushed it away with the heel of his hand, and the bottle lay in shards on the floor. The whole newsroom rolled its eyes at the editor and he just said "someone is jealous of my covers". From that day on my editor's life became a table with two legs; he had already lost his balance.

Editor Trindade began to be the cover of his own life, he would call me to help him climb the stairs, the edge of his ashtray overflowed with cotton strips filled with blood, and his nostrils exhaled buds of blood with each breath. And the covers could not stop, so a certain Chirindza was put in to design the covers, but the newspaper without editor Trindade was not the same. And it was under Chirindza's leadership that the covers of the newspaper were buried. The paper went bankrupt and I, a half-assed intern, lowered my ears, buried the tail of my hands between my legs to be pushed aside like a bitch at any moment.

Once the editor Trindade appeared, already spent, in the newsroom to criticize a Chirindza cover: with a sheaf of spelling mistakes. When he left, he left, in the form of a smell, a huge tail with yawns of pills. On his forehead was his grave number in the shape of veins. He stopped on the stairs, called me over and said, "have you seen what our classmates look like?"

And after that I didn't see the editor Trindade again. I saw his corpse on his back, with his eyes closed, going down the ropes in a grave in the Texlom cemetery. He had new shoes, but he went down into the grave on the ropes. And the sweaty gravediggers were making noise with shovels in the midst of prayers by a white priest; we all left the cemetery, a voice followed me, tumbled its hand over my shoulder and whispered "this is a cover and it sells a lot."