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series: American Bedroom | photography: Barbara Peacock

I’ve never done anything but dream. This, and this alone, has been the meaning of my life. My only real concern has been my inner life. — Fernando Pessoa, The Book of Disquiet

I’ve always been an ironic dreamer, unfaithful to my inner promises.
Like a complete outsider, a casual observer of whom I thought I was,
I’ve always enjoyed watching my daydreams go down in defeat.
I was never convinced of what I believed in.
I filled my hands with sand, called it gold, and opened them up to let it slide through.
Words were my only truth.
When the right words were said, all was done; the rest was the sand that had always been. — Fernando Pessoa, The book of Disquiet

(…)
I light up a cigarette as I think about writing them,
And in that cigarette I savor a freedom from all thoughts.
I follow the smoke as if it were my own trail,
And enjoy, for a sensitive and adequate moment
The liberation from all speculation
And the awareness that metaphysics is a consequence of not feeling well.
(…)
Fernando Pessoa, Tabacaria

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