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Tenho a impressão que me preparo. Ou seria apenas uma ilusão vagabunda? O tempo urge cada vez mais monstruoso, me sorries, sais e vais ligeiro. Não te vejo ir da janela, não te aceno, não me despeço de ti. Fazia frio esta manhã, o céu estava azul. Ventava, um vento barulhento. Saí as pressas e me perdi numa floresta que fica perto da casa. Entre nós não havia cotidiano possível. Haviam ausências e desesperos e dramas que colidiam numa coisa chamada cama. Vou te explicar como ser eu. E te dou a tarefa de entender-me, de acurdir-me quando todas as solidões se fizerem presente, quando todos os tumores da alma estiverem num sentir agudo. Quando eu ja não couber nesta fantasia de paz e calma, nesta absurda idéia de querer ser feliz.

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