"The most important things are the hardest things to say. They are the things you get ashamed of, because words diminish them - words shrink things that seemed limitless when they were in your head to no more than living size when they're brought out. But it's more than that, isn't it? The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried, like landmarks to a treasure your enemies would love to steal away. And you may make revelations that cost you dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while you were saying it. That's the worst, I think. When the secret stays locked within not for want of a teller, but for want of an understanding ear."

Stephen King - "Different Seasons"

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terça-feira, março 22, 2005

Lisboa é um milagre, quando a luz solar se resolve aliar ao calor. É uma imensa encosta de luz. Um sonho. E um pesadelo. Demasiado grande, a macrocéfala só poderia ser mesmo conotada como mulher, por uma beleza e complexidade que por vezes é indefinível. Especialmente numa mesa no Chapitô, a ver o sol que banha a cidade num beijo lento.

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