Too curious to ask you a question. Too humble to stop sharing personal accomplishments. Too well read to bother with Emerson.

You’re at the beach, on mars. That’s what it feels like at Falesia Beach. Who knew the sand would be so incredible, smooth grains of rice.

An army of letters. Battalions of words fighting to be heard. Their composition a dull thud of footsteps. Heard and yet not understood.

The joy of others is my joy. The tears of others are my tears. There is no them.

Sintra is to Lisbon what Florence is to Rome. She’s relaxed and charming. A gem nestled into a broader oasis.