Inside me is a bunch of nothing. I haven't been thinking of fears, of ghosts... I have been thinking not even in love, to be honest. Inside of me there is breeze instead of wind. There is coconut water, instead of vodka. Inside of me is quiet, but I'll be able to hear - once in a while - a Chico Buarque's song in the background. Don't worry, nothing of this is lobotomy or the promess that here, inside, will always be like this, unlike, inside of me is never like this.
Inside of me is quiet for now, and only for this moment, I'm fine. So, I beg you, don't ask me to talk about it, don't ask me to explain it, 'cause this way, I'll get sick again.
Let me here, enjoy a bit of myself and hers... which is here wirh me now...
