Life

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You're never ready enough for bad news and thinking about it is useless.

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If without you I'd a squallid life, empty and miserable it woudn't be worth it to give it up for you. What good would it be if you were the alternative to nothingness, to emptiness, to sadness? More a person is happy alone, more the person he decides to be with takes on importance.

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Joy and pain come from that room and are the key in order to enter. Joy and pain cry the same tears, they are nacre of the life, and what counts in life is to maintain intact that splinter of heart, so difficult to reach, so difficult to listen, so difficult to donate, because there it is all true.

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Make sure everyone that comes your way leaves feeling better and happier.

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Then I'll live peacefully in a little house on the outskirts of something, enjoying a tranquility in which I won't have to do the job that I, in any case, don't do now and looking for, continuing my doing nothing, different excuses from those with which today I avoid personal confrontation. Or I'll be a guest in some poor people's hospice, satisfied by my own complete defeat and confused amongst those human relics who thought they were brilliant and instead were only beggars loaded with dreams; I, together with the anonimous mass of those who didn't have the strength to win and neither the generous renunciation to win back-to-front. Anywhere should I be, I'll feel nostalgia for the principal, Mr. Vasques, fot this room in Rua dos Douradores. And the monotony of life for me shall be like the monotony of the loves I never had, or for the triumphs that never would've been.

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No age escapes naivety. Not even old age.

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He'd like to hibernate and tries to close his eyes but he knows hibernation only comes with winter, again he opens his eyes to the world, this world of two-legged monsters which are monsters all the more. Only one thing remains but to call his far off world, and so he does with all his breath but with ascending softness. I'd only like to save him, take him away on a train and leave him there, after the rain, under a rainbow.

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Where is the present? It's on hanging billiards and it goes held firm with the hand in order to stop it otherwise you notice with delay what you have lost, and the implication that is still disowned.

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With the years it is easy to complicate things within if you don't keep track of the past to follow an utopia, not having an elastic band which hurdles you back.

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Human life is but a comedy, in which everyone acts a part, and continues doing so until the great director makes him leave the stage.