Quando o Sol baixar, vou sair de novo, mas não vou passar pelo painel de azulejos, nem vou visitar a vizinha nova: “se precisar de alguma coisa, estou aqui mesmo ao lado.” Não, não! Não estou! Já me fui embora, não ver a quero ver, só se for através do óculo da porta, onde a espio e ao filho. Ou neto? On April 1st, a short, elderly woman moved into the apartment next door. I couldn't stop thinking about the wall with the soldiers, which I had seen that same day at dawn. How strange it was that my thoughts kept returning to that tiled wall. Even in Lisbon, it was still unusual in my mind. I closed the curtains, as the sun was high in the sky. The nausea wouldn't leave my stomach. How could it be a coincidence that the lady's son, in his neatly pressed uniform, had come to drop her off, along with her belongings, the day after I had come across that image? I tried to sleep. I think I managed it. At least two or three images of bobbing boats were Downstairs, I hear the vacuum cleaner, the sound even lulling me. But in my concern, which inhibits my sleep and clearer dreams, remains the uniform. Honestly, I don't know what uniform it is. I don't understand anything about ranks, functions, and hierarchies. How should I know if he's a sailor or a marine! I think he left. Did he leave his mother alone? Or is it his grandmother? Last night I ended up walking aimlessly. I tried to ignore the slight fear I felt when I was alone on the street. After all, this is a safe city. What I have inside me is something very big and unsafe. Or maybe it's cruel. When the sun goes down, I'll go out again, but I won't pass by the tile panel, nor will I visit the new neighbor: “If you need anything, I'm right next door.” No, no! I'm not! I'm gone, I don't want to see her, unless it's through the peephole in the door, where I spy on her and her son. Or grandson? etched in my memory, so I think I dreamed... Or was it my stomach mixing with the sea? Quando ele estava prestes a se dirigir aos convidados reunidos, perdeu a voz. Mas não foi uma ausência que se percecionasse na audiência. Foi uma perda da sua voz interna. Acho que até se poderia dizer, matéria inata, que se expressou finalmente: não voltarás a falar livremente. Gabriel ficou em pânico. Suava profusamente, quase ao ponto de podermos colocar peixinhos no seu suor e os mesmos sobreviveriam!
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