Too much pressure will kill you. Too much pressure will kill you. Too much pressure will kill you...

Hear the bell from the church tower. Hear the tolling for the dead. Wait for the rain and collect the seeded coffins and the wraiths.
The crowd waits, sheltered beneath the willows. They all boast superb bereavements, sunglasses and pearls, inherited from those who lie there. Flowers and candles and remorse. The smell of burning wax, the wicks extinguished by rain.
The pain of the soul is selfishness, not commiseration! It is not, either, the nostalgia!
But the greater is the selfishness of those who leave, knowing that those who stay feel like that: as worms. Because now, the pearls are heavy, because of the uttered words, or because of those that were spoken at the wrong time!

Ah! Fuck all this. I'm tired.

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Quando lia contos de fadas, eu imaginava que aquelas coisas nunca aconteciam, e agora cá estou no meio de uma! Deveria haver um livro escrito sobre mim, ah isso deveria! E quando for grande, vou escrever um...