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Denouement I have great admiration for ships and for certain people's handwriting which I attempt to imitate. Of my entire family, I'm the only one who has seen the ocean. I describe it over and over; they say "hmm" and continue circling the chicken coop with wire. I tell about the spume, and the wearisome size of the waters; they don't remember there's such a place as Kenya, they'd never guess I'm thinking of Tanzania. Eagerly they show me the lot: this is where the kitchen will be, that's where we'll put in a garden. So what do I do with the coast? It was a pretty afternoon the day I planted myself in the window, between uncles, and saw the man with his fly open, the trellis angry with roses. Hours and hours we talked unconsciously in Portuguese as if it were the only language in the world. Faith or no, I ask where are my people who are gone; because I'm human, I zealously cover the pan of leftover sauce. How could we know how to live a better life than this, when even weeping it feels so good to be together? Suffering belongs to no language. I suffered and I suffer both in Minas Gerais and at the edge of the ocean. I stand in awe of being alive. Oh, moon over the backlands, oh, forests I don't need to see to get lost in, oh, great cities and states of Brazil that I love as if I had invented them. Being Brazilian places me in a way I find moving and this, which without sinning I can call fate, gives my desire a rest. Taken all at once, it's far too intelligible; I can't take it. Night! Make yourself useful and cover me with sleep. Me and the thought of death just can't get used to each other. I'll tremble with fear until the end. And meanwhile everything is so small. Compared to my heart's desire the sea is a drop. ...

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