Waldosia
Smoking a cigarette, recently stolen from the drawer of the man who lives with you, sitting on the gray asphalt paved path, which now turns greenish in the afternoon light thanks to the coloring of the door, is not a bad way to pass. the time you have to spare. Staring at the multiple faces passing by should just be boring, but it hurts his chest like a broken heart.
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Olá, seja lá quem você é. Não sei o que te trouxe a ver meu perfil, mas se está lendo isso pode significar que quer saber algo sobre mim. En...
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We all share feelings that we don't know how to define. In fact, we don't even talk about them at all, that is, I'm not referring to teenage crushes or explosive anger, but something more specific, which is not in the common dictionaries. The Dictionary of Obscure Sorrows names these feelings that we do not define, in order to illuminate our vision when we feel.
Oh my wonderful city, That exudes its beauty from its sounds to its colors, No, don't look there! Ignore this gray, ignore these bangs, pay attention to what I show you, the rest is just for us.
In a small community dominated by a powerful farmer, a man who has always rejected violence sees his life destroyed by a massacre. Faced with loss and injustice, he embarks on a journey of revenge that will transform not only his destiny, but also that of an entire community.
Vornek is a lumberjack who traded the big city for the solitude of the forest. Quiet, rough, with calloused hands, he lives in the clearing, carving wood and avoiding the world. Until the day Rubin crosses his path—young, with black hair and eyes that shine in the shadows, wearing a lilac dress and a scent of lavender that clings to memory like sap to bark. He doesn't know who she is. He doesn't know where she came from. He only knows that, from the very first moment, everything he builds has her name hidden in the wood. But the forest keeps secrets, and the village of Pedra Alta is not as quiet as it seems. While Vornek struggles against his own silence and tries to learn how to love, shadows from the past draw near, and the craft of woodcarving may be the only thing capable of saving them.
Ele se lembra de tudo. Da mãe, dos dias com Clara, das coisas que disse e das que deixou passar. Mas lembrar já não parece suficiente. Entre objetos guardados e uma carta inesperada, ele procura algo que ainda seja capaz de fazer diferença.
Corações em busca de harmonia fomentam dentro de si uma perpétua dissonância. Ela faz tinta com a terra seca do quintal; ele dá nome a tudo o que se bebe e jura que água e vinho, juntos, são uma mistura intragável. Anos depois da tarde em que a chuva não veio, a mesma tempestade alcança os dois em lugares diferentes. Talvez seja tarde para voltar. Talvez nunca tenha sido sobre vinho.