Once again, I´ve read an old letter from my sister Bruna Mara. She wrote like a river, lost in time, different ink, irregular lines in a paper that used for another purpose.
It spoke about days, hours, landscape. TV on, cooking food, the look through window.
I put the letter into another envelope. I´d want to read it differently another day. The words will come back and they always and never are the same.