estou no pateo, em curva, e o vento não chega aqui. fica do lado delá do muro, faz-lhe uma tangente e segue em disparada para a quinta do hespanhol ondeos pinheiros altos o esperam. aqui o sol pode pousar inteiro e eu posso fingir que leio um livro que nem é meu. posso interromper e olhar directamente para o sol de chapa, de olhos cerrados, e ver ondas de luz por dentro de mim. posso ouvir a coruja,o pónei e uns porcos bebés que cheiram mal. ainda bem que o vento, que passa depressa, leva o cheiro. e ainda bem que os pinheiros não desmaiam.
dear Sophia, it's really late. I've just arrived home after a dinner at my grandma's house. she's still so special. everyone ate a lot, we talked about old friends, ourselves when we were growing up. there are always stories about africa. we are all so linked there, so many miles away and yet. we talked about you, alexis and darril. and also about the bulldogs that my uncle used to have and were pretty awfull and scary. I was really afraid of them, but one day I grabbed a horn and chased them trough the garden until they were crying with the noise. never bothered me again. we also mentioned cape town and pretoria, your house, your family, I remember you so dearly it's hard to say. you were my friend and were a bit like me. you thaught me english and had the patiente enough to hear me reading, laughing out loud in a bed full of animals and pillows that we throwed until they reached the ceiling, you knew the piano but hated it. you knew everybody and everything so wel
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