This text is fictional; any resemblance to people or events is purely coincidental.
A poor, ugly, and old boy
Not that he was in love with any girl. He just liked to appear to be. Perhaps because it made him seem like everyone else. Not that he liked to be like everyone else. He just didn't want to be different from everyone. Love brought him some vanity, a certain youthfulness, and moderate audacity. Without it, he was walking the streets in shorts and flip-flops. An outfit that represented no more than nothing, and this image was everything.
His salvation would be a certain dose of daring, a sweet boldness, and a bittersweet impertinence. And if nothing bore fruit, he would be someone animated, intrigued. What is life worth without a bit of doubt?
So he returned home, put on his Sunday suit. He put on his boots and his pants, all so slowly. He polished his boots, buffed his shirt buttons, and combed his hair, stepped into the crosswalk, smiling at the girl in the luxurious sports car, the street sweeper on Avenida Primeira, the butcher shop attendant, and the drunk passerby.
At the end of the day, he returned home drunk on smiles, with a stomach full of the purest hope.
10.7.9
Sílvio Lôbo
This text is fictional; any resemblance to people or events is purely coincidental.
A poor, ugly, and old boy
Not that he was in love with any girl. He just liked to appear to be. Perhaps because it made him seem like everyone else. Not that he liked to be like everyone else. He just didn't want to be different from everyone. Love brought him some vanity, a certain youthfulness, and moderate audacity. Without it, he was walking the streets in shorts and flip-flops. An outfit that represented no more than nothing, and this image was everything.
His salvation would be a certain dose of daring, a sweet boldness, and a bittersweet impertinence. And if nothing bore fruit, he would be someone animated, intrigued. What is life worth without a bit of doubt?
So he returned home, put on his Sunday suit. He put on his boots and his pants, all so slowly. He polished his boots, buffed his shirt buttons, and combed his hair, stepped into the crosswalk, smiling at the girl in the luxurious sports car, the street sweeper on Avenida Primeira, the butcher shop attendant, and the drunk passerby.
At the end of the day, he returned home drunk on smiles, with a stomach full of the purest hope.
10.7.9
Sílvio Lôbo
