I'm six, five, four, the sun shining oh-so-bright on our golden skin and Caetano Veloso is singing on the speakers about the treasures of our tropical land, while we create memories that will last forever, or at least until the Alzheimer gets to us.
Remember when love was something to die for? Cupid was firing poisoned arrows by then, and boy, did they stung. We had everything planned like typical teenagers with delusions of adulthood always do, vowing never to change, and we were still better than the normal adult after all. Still better than the adult us.
(I forgive you for delaying the end of the world, God, but it would have been nice to give us the eutanasia button I asked, wouldn't it? I was looking forward to testing it myself.)
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