13 de novembro de 2015 | 18h38

I lived in semi-poverty back then. In a basement, in a foreign country, conjuring up a story that was never printed.

When he came, I welcomed him, gave him shelter for some weeks. Not that he was poor; he could have stayed at a hotel.

One day we walked to the city center together — the three of us. I could barely afford a gourmet coffee in that pleasant square.

He marveled at a beautiful antique in a nearby store; a miniature of a wooden boat from colonial times. I remember I used to spend a couple of minutes every weekend in front of it, admiring it.

In the end he bought one for himself, and kept marveling at the perfect craft all the way back “home”. He was enthralled. Only she noticed my sad eyes, my downtrodden gait. “He couldn’t buy one for you, right?”, she whispered. I couldn’t avoid the tears. The saddest of all: he did not even notice what was going on.

Selfishness is above all blinding.




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