How to wake up without hurt? Restart without horror? My sleep carried me to that kingdom where life is inexistent and I remain inert without passion. How to repeat, day after day, the incomplete fable, to bear the likeness of all rough things of tomorrow with the harsh things today? How to protect myself from wounds that tear in me the events, any event that resembles the earth and its purple madness? And the one more wound inflicted by myself every single hour – torturer of the innocent that I am not? No one answers, life is cruel.
To wake, To live by Carlos Drummond de Andrade