"... te perdoar é voltar a ter boas memórias ao ouvir a tua voz."

Blue Valentine [again].

I don't really like the present. The present stinks, and hurts and smells like tears. Taste like tears. You know that taste? Salty like the sea? The present is lonely nights, no warm, no shelter, a dark bedroom somewhere in the darkness, listening to the rain falling down and hitting the window.

I prefer the past. The past smells like... how can I describe the smell of happiness? A large smile, cold mornings walking holding hands with the love of your life, Beatles, Bod Dylan, Smiths... I love her. I love her more than everything. Why can't I just feel fine and rest? The past tastes like hope. The present tastes like... like a blue filter in a lone Valentine.

A vida adulta é uma merda.