Ela entrou tímida mas orgulhosa. "Trinta e sete", "oitenta e dois", milhos nas cartelas. Entretidas que estavam, ninguém reparou que caminhava calmamente. Continuou andando a passos largos, nem feliz nem triste, num raro momento em que não importa estar nem um nem outro. Cheiro de pastel. Comprou dois, um café e sentou satisfeita, cadeira de palha, mesa de madeira, de frente para todas. "Oi tudo bem como vai", "quanto tempo nossa apareça!", "ah, filha da Rose, moça bonita, caprichou, hein?". Baixou a guarda, como tão poucas vezes, "oi tudo bem como vai dois pasteis? puxa quanta fome!". Monstros se erguem das cadeiras, apontam, riem e a devoram.

Once she was free, free to love people, the world and their wierdness. She believed her world was real, solid; peacefully existing apart of the one world she would wake up, bursh her teeth and go to school every morning. She never worried about it, it was all set. She was liquid, a cameleon, just feeling an inner indecisiveness that was as wide and as wavering as the ocean. The colours mixed one day, though. They had always been mixed in fact... It was just a matter of perceiving it with eyes, and not heart. Then it came all to light, and light destroys when too bright, and light destroyed: pittyless, merciless. Darkness would be better company. She visits it sometimes.