How come I'm no more than a delightful game? One day you're talking about next steps... and for the next three chapters you pretend to be dead. Were you drunk? Were you stoned? O que é que acontece? You appreciate women who pretend they are not predictable; you stand up for women who struggle so hard to be subtle that one would even think it's worth it. You like posh covered in simple, Machiavelli disguised as Jesus. I could tell you to listen to more Lou Reed or Bob Dylan, but I know you know it. And me? I'm this Brazilian girl who one day had to learn that simple is no longer magical, that truth is way unacceptable, that love etiquette is some brand new European trend. I've learned, but I haven't taken it in - at all. I don't buy it, I'm too much stubborn for your liking - I won't swallow my pride. Sometimes we urge to understand and fail to realise that our brains do work fast. In other words, some answers will just blow in the wind till we forget about the questions. Oh, speaking of which, I quite remember mine: how come I'm no more than a delightful game? Funny as it seems, I happen to know the answer for this one. Simple: despite all the pride I worship and the prejudice I strive against, deep, deep inside... I feel the same.
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