Winter

This damned dark never-ending sky pouring without shame over our shoulders is killing the smiles and hopes for this new year. No one remembers their goals and new year resolutions. You can see the whisper behind people's sore throats "I want to go home" "Let us cuddle in bed" "Lit me a warm fire at my feet" as they thrive in impatience behind their wheels in a giant line of whisperers during rush hour. I know for sure my genes were made to live under the sun. Most Portuguese, I guess, share my craving for the sunshine. "If I were rich" someone told me this once again grey morning "I would chase the sun around the word". Indeed. The warmth we feel near those old crappy heaters is equivalent to the temperature Australians are experiencing in the water... at the beach... at night. With age one would expect a woman to warm up in her natural temperature. However, my whispers are more desperate screams of someone who can't endure the cold and the rain together. Estou ensopada até às entranhas e fartinha destas temperaturas glaciares!