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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Unresolved pain. Nostalgia. Fire. Vivid dreams at night. Immense love. I read the other day something an old friend once told me. Go back to what you were good at when you were a child. That's where your natural talent is. I go back, and so many things come up. So many interests. Infinite curiosity. I loved words when I was a child. But I also loved animals and nature. I also loved music and poetry. The beach made me go without sleep. I also loved to dance. I remember attracting people's comments while dancing at parties. Not because I was good but because I did my own thing. I also liked cooking and baking from an early age. Books were also my private world. But who am I now, forty years later? I listen to Riccardo Cocciante, and my heart fills with raw emotion. How can someone be so good and write the most beautiful songs? I need to understand Italian better, but what I know and feel with his songs is beyond anything material. The power of art has to move us. That streng
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