"Windows of my room,
Of my room of one of the million in the world such that nobody knows whose it is
(And if they knew whose it is, what would they know?),
You open up to the mystery of a street crossed constantly by people,
To a street inaccessible to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and the beings,
With death to put humidity in the walls and white hairs in men,
With Destiny to lead the cart of everything through the road of nothing."
Of my room of one of the million in the world such that nobody knows whose it is
(And if they knew whose it is, what would they know?),
You open up to the mystery of a street crossed constantly by people,
To a street inaccessible to all thoughts,
Real, impossibly real, certain, unknowingly certain,
With the mystery of things beneath the stones and the beings,
With death to put humidity in the walls and white hairs in men,
With Destiny to lead the cart of everything through the road of nothing."
Fernando Pessoa
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