para quem ainda não nasceu e para o meu pai, que não se fez papoila, mas onda do mar.

‎It's Sunday morning, a morning of hangovers. The whole hotel seems suspended in the air. We ask her to get to the bar, to make it sing for her, to sing for her son (for whom she had written this song). We erase ourselves. She, she doesn't. After we're done filming, I cry. She cries too.