O homem que não estava lá.

for more times than i can remember. he speaks to me.

i never see him, i just know how he looks like.

i dont choose the times, but i can control'em.

he is always calm, a little sad and he speaks very paused.

i dont know if it is just to make me understand or if he is just true.

nobody can see him, maybe because he only speak when we are alone.

when i am alone.

some nights he whisper for me just before i fall into sleep.

in others, he talks and talks and talks, and no word is new, not a single word is new.

i always know what he is gonna say before he do. it´s like i was the one who wrote it.

but even tho he is me, when he is talking to me he is someone else.

its not crazyness, its exacly the opposite.

in the middle of the storm i talk to myself and let him to bring me back to reason.

just another crazy way to go sane.