é a M. que diz que a vida nos dá sempre uma maneira de voltarmos às coisas. acho que é assim com a infância, que somos a criança que já vivemos todos os dias e não sabíamos. também é assim com as pessoas que se cruzaram e cruzam connosco todos os dias. de alguma maneira, cada passo, mesmo que acabe numa valente queda, volta mais tarde numa nova oportunidade de o dar. uma oportunidade mais madura, novinha em folha, de fazer de novo e outra vez. acontece-me com as pessoas de quem gosto muito. acontece-me com aqueles de quem (achava eu) tinha deixado de gostar. acontece-me com os talentos que cada um tem. é como senitr chegar um verão e encher o peito de ar.
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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