In Lisoa, you are never far from a hill, nor water, nor a good restaurant, nor history, nor a bar, nor a castle. There is a feeling of white, as well as Marseilles tiles. On Sunday, on Liberdade Avenue, there was a flea market that made me want to fill my suitcases (but the head eventually prevailed).
I will bow down to the time: a woolen ball that tumbles from intermingled threads. At the bottom of the hill, I will read very long words that are not often spoken until Sunday. Then I will rest.