"I get along without you very well, of course I do; except when soft rains fall and drip from leaves, then I recall the thrill of being sheltered in your arms, of course I do. But I get along without you very well. I've forgotten you, just like I should, of course I have; except to hear your name, or someone's laugh that is the same. But I've forgotten you just like I should."

you and me. let's be blaket people

"Claro que sou, estou sempre a sofrer. Muitas vezes penso: será que posso desistir? Mas depois constato que tenho de agradecer: obrigada, dor, por me ajudares a ser um escritor. Mas também penso muitas vezes: será que vale a pena? Tudo isto só me tem servido para me meter em tantos sarilhos, ao longo da vida! Às vezes rio-me deste sofrimento romântico desnecessário. Para que é que é preciso sempre amor, amor, dor, dor, dor..."

by Bret Easten Ellis in Ipsílon - ao ser comparado a um romântico do tipo Lord Byron ou Shelley

    and they are actually lovers, and they still don't know.

ponto da situação: não sei se hei-de rir, se hei-de chorar. ai

"in front of a coffee shop on the outskirts of Austin, I learned my first lesson about real love - it persists even after the parties involved have torned each other down. real love builds us back up. in front seat of my 4runner, in the parking lot of a bookstore, at the end of the coldest months of the year, i learned that the real love, however misguided, is forgiving. but also that misguided love is hopelessly flowed and, regrettably, temporary."

on lelove

dói-me o corpo. hoje era de ficar na cama, a adormecer e a acordar, adormecer e acordar. sempre neste registo, que me dizes? hum, és mesmo um preguiçoso, mas chega-te para lá que eu gosto. nunca mais me deixes sozinha, está bem? prometes? chá ou chocolate?

é de cheiro a terra molhada. os olhos sabem. e não me venhas cá com histórias - os olhos não mentem. tu mentes, eles não. e leves, cansadas, de triste melancolia bailam. pingos, cheiro a terra molhada. humm, eu já só quero chegar a casa.

so, friday i couldn't sleep. i wake up at least 6 times in that night, friday to saturday. it was no good. i dreamed about you and that girl, i dreamed that you were already with her. that you were in fact with her, for real, and that was for last. i wake up 6 times in that night, always about to cry, believing that you were with her. tears for fear(s). you are with her, i realize - and that's no good. it would be so much easier for me not to have you around. not have to see your face every single day. it's ridiculous, but it causes me such a pain. sometimes i really wish i would never met you. it's so fucking idiot, i'm so fucking desperate about you. so go away now, i don't wanna see you anymore. go fucking away, go.

e como se procurasse por mim, procuro-te a ti e aos teus mentirosos olhos como se não houvesse um amanhã. oh pobre criança, ouço-os dizer.

promete que se algum dia ele tentar voltar, tu não o deixas. promete.

i thought you were mine - what a big mistake, hein?

i could feel you staring at me. you found my hand and you hold it, close to yours. i was standing still. you respect silence.  i could feel your eyes stucked on me and besides that, i wasn't burning and i was insanely quiet. never forget it, you looked at me one last long minute, than you hug me and you gently kissed. my forehead, my ear, my lips.

do mesmo realizador de Were The Wild Things Are, Spike Jonze deixa-nos com esta enternecedora curta-metragem. lindo, carinhoso, querido; que eu claro só adorei, adorei, adorei. vejam, vejam, está mesmo mesmo aqui.