Ive had an awful dream tonight... and I believe something died inside me, that cant be brought "back"... im sorry, but I must go and take care of my heart... so... this will be the end for me:
"A second time, to have him near again--
A paper image to lay against her heart
The way she laid his letters, till they grew warm
And seemed to give her warmth, like a live skin
But it is she who is paper now, warmed by no one"
In "Widow", by Sylvia Plath
PS. Sabem quem é que também morreu ontem de noite... em Lisboa? O Peixe-Lua do Oceanário... sigh.
