12 de novembro de 2015 | 18h04

The wind blows tenderly and yet hoists a large heavy leaf from the ground, in a whirlwind.

As it should not float, I am reminded of Guimaraes Rosa’s prince of darkness doing mischief, disguised as a whirlwind. Has he crossed the ocean? Did he come to fetch me?

I say out loud: “I am not going back”, and the whirlwind promptly recedes — but where to? into the untranslatable book?

I am too old now, don’t have the strength to go home anymore. Don’t have no one to go back to. “I am not going back”, I whisper to myself, before continuing reading.


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