I am currently translating chapters for a wine/tourism guide on my free time, even though it's been scarce, lately.
Now, friday at 10.14 p.m., my feet ache and my eyes and my shoulderblades also hurt. Funny place to have pain.
And, right now, out of nowhere, I just thought of an interesting and very true quote from a book I read: "the comfort of ignorance". It's from Alan Hollinghurst's The Swimming Pool Library. (yes, my book cover is exactly like that one, but with the Portuguese title).
And now, also out of the blue, I feel like writting a John Keat's dirty poem. Maybe later.