It’s the first day after the apocalypse. A little bit less than half of the state finds itself in a deep deep crisis, crying and suffering like hell: 2009 and 2005 all over again. Somewhere, someone sits on a couch, in a dirty home full of shattered glass on the floor.
It’s gonna be ok, it’s gonna be fine, he lies to himself.
Spotify on the TV. Deep breath. Você Virou Saudade, by Só Pra Contrariar plays softly in the background.