Every other thing.

Rain 2.

Outside, from my bedroom window, life goes on displaying neighbours, through the glass. Just a moment ago, an old lady was running her fingers through a painting, gazing at me, hiding the frame. What is she painting?

I can see a couple in a direction where the eye doesn’t have to make any effort. Sat, on wooden chairs, lying on the Sun who has already gone. They must be Australians, I wonder. It doesn’t bother them my surveillance, they recreated the atmosphere of a tropical country.

I think that the world is asking for happenings. In the apparent routine, normality is hidden. What do they think about me? Do they care?

The sales assistants, the guy at the off-license, the girl at the dry-cleaning, all of them have said my face is already familiar. I walk in these streets, I live just around the corner, I am almost captured by the pictures they take beside me. I, I, I.

Such a lonely word.

But it is just a matter of waiting; you should Know that by now.

Ps. Listening to ‘Vento no Litoral’, by Renato Russo.