A cat jumps over me to ask for food at 7am. 4:07 are 3. Someone asks me to teach you to send sms's to 8. 4:08 are 4. At 9 comes the maid and her vacuum cleaner, which I prefer to call conspirator. 4:09 are 5. At 10 I quit fighting. * Thinks to me that I lay down to 1 instead of April and the day begins. 4 and 10 are 6. Hours of sleep, then. Beirut
I put on repeat and high screams. Always the same song, which fills me with happiness every time again. The cat runs away, the vacuum disappears and everything becomes perfect before his words ... A Sunday smile you wore it for a while ... And just so you can smile, even if not Sunday.
Being in London is always this: mornings when it is impossible to delve into the dream world, because there is a stark reality that compels me to work.
The comparison is forced, and I find myself remembering the London morning, the white skies, no time. Always the same: open your eyes closed when I want to be, able to drag the body out of bed in the silence of a house where only the objects littered talk, take a pill to give soul to the body. Expect that the effect begins and one hour later, still yawning, after many many cigarettes and cups of tea through spilled everywhere, believe that apathy will save me another day when I feel that my existence is pointless. In Lisbon
nothing happens. The cat is sweet when it gets to me, the maid is affectionate and prepares a breakfast that I pretend to like, as I am unable to eat in the early hours of the morning, the sky is different, not all white, and the idea that there is a world harmless out there without hours of travel to get to wherever it is, inspires me.
.. A Sunday smile you wore it for a while ... Sings Zach , four, five, six times, never tune.
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