Não aspiro a nada. Dói-me a vida. Estou mal onde estou e já mal onde penso em poder estar. - Fernando Pessoa

My dreams are a stupid refuge, like an umbrella against a thunderbolt.

My God, my God, who am I attending to? How many am I? Who is me? What is this interval between me and me?

I still remember — so vividly I can smell the gentle fragrance of the spring air — the afternoon when I decided, after thinking everything over, to abdicate from love as from an insoluble problem. it was in May, a May that was softly summery, with the flowers around my estate already in full bloom, their colors fading as the sun made its slow descent. Escorted by regrets and self-reproach, I walked among my few trees, I had dined early and was wandering, like a symbol, under the useless shadows and faint rustle of leaves. And suddenly I was overwhelmed by a desire to renounce completely, to withdraw once and for all, and I felt an intense nausea for having had so many desires, so many hopes, with so many outer conditions for attaining them and so much inner impossibility of really wanting to attain them.