A few years later we met again. I asked her how she was feeling. Calmly, she just said: "You know what, I don't even know why I made it so difficult. Now that I look back... I never even liked him that much."

I should not be allowed to talk to people I'm falling for.
Sit there, smile, look pretty - maybe fuck'em a little.
But when this mouth starts moving, all those thoughts start racing and this erge to find out more more deeper deeper what you're feeling, what you want, what are your hopes and dreams and what do you think want hope wish desire of life and love and religion and why why why just how is it possible you never told someone you love them? Before this moment comes, someone please come and take me away, cover my mouth, drag me twisting and fighting - don't let me ruin it.
Just sit there, smile, look pretty - make one of those jokes that make you sound so witty.

So I started reading again - I decided I was becoming such a blunt ignorant. And I'm not saying this for the compliments, nor those "you should've never stopped in the first place". I'm just sharing. It feels like something you should inform people about. Like if you were getting back with an old boyfriend.

I'm glad we finally found out how to calm me down after all these years of my frantic attacks, I'm glad we discovered all I need is laying quietly on your chest, and I'm glad that that's the antidote. And I'm still glad we found that out, 'cause now at least I can think about it, you know, when I'm like this, I can at least, you know, just, imagine it.

Qualquer coisa na maneira como a expressão dos olhos, boca, sobrancelhas, conjugadas parecem uma orquestra. E a maneira como às vezes me apetece ler e fantasio no passeio pelo teu quarto, à procura de um livro de que já te esqueceste, e tens perdido numa prateleira, no meio de três revistas casuais que leste, de facto. E a forma como sempre que entro no teu carro digo "Olá" sem prestar atenção e sigo o resto do caminho calada, concentrada nalguma coisa até que revelo o meu fascínio: "que música é esta que está a dar?", e a forma como fico frustrada quando a resposta normalmente começa por "é uma colectânea..." ou "é a banda sonora...". A forma como, em tudo, consegues fazer-me ficar calada, de expectativa, para depois me desiludires com a resposta.