This city is an injured diamond, its broken facets shining day and night. White and coral, the doubtful light grazes dry crevices and blotches of mould on these quiet façades. Blue and yellow flourishes reflect echoes of dogs barking and remorseful human cries. It’s a melancholy that has no purpose, so perfect and true. I look up and see grass growing in the sky and I say to myself, “This is the place, the place to be. Let my body rest here.” My doleful stance is heavy with confusion. Summer rages on, timid enough to be tempting. I just want to find a hole where I can sleep for two hundred years, all responsibilities forgotten, all ambition void of meaning.
Lisbon, you have become my cradle, the warm comforter of my lethargy, but the day is long and the eye of the moral destitute needs to wander. My face is growing longer under the sun. I will leave you with pain, hopeless, vagarious. The hope of a comeback is not the luxury of the maladjusted.