The apparent stillness of the Tejo in the distance, the big clouds overhead drawing dark shapes on its reticent surface, these are things I can imagine dreaming when I will not be here anymore. Will they be happy or sad dreams? I wonder. Perhaps they will be neither. The dream of the fool is a lonely place indeed. And yet there is no word that is only mine, and in these delusions the dreams I dream are someone else’s too. Already I have to look out of the window to make out the ripples on the river and start over and over. The bird cries the same cry night and day, a cry that drowns more easily than it fluctuates in the air. And then there are more ripples besides, all these remote voices are glimmering over the waters.
