This winter my mind can’t shake the feel of our legs wrapped up in each other, wrapped up in white sheets. Still air bursting with a heavy humidity causing every surface to shimmer as the light filters in. We’ll rise for important things like tea, breakfast, fucking. But, an escape isn’t really an escape if you keep on leaving, now is it?

After a few days we’ll really venture out: Fill our palms and cheeks with whatever local delicacy the street vendors shout at us. ‘Arrrrepas! halo halo! espetinho! bao! ceviche!’ We’ll be full of life and drunk on sunshine and happier than we’ll ever remember being. Our nights will be long, languid, lustful.

On our final morning, when the sun begins to bleed into the horizon, we’ll shake off sleep slowly, letting it fall to the sheets below us to be trampled beneath our bodies.

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