In the last few months, I have been intensively socializing with Jose Saramago. I bring his manuscripts to bed, have lunch with him, breakfast as well. Pictures he composes into sentences have the effect as if he is cutting my skin with a scalpel, incising my vessels and penetrating into the red blood cell, and the other ones too. They circle around my body stabbing into the soul. I’m powerless over that beauty. And I’m scared that it will divide me in half… those who have followed his signs in letter formations know that. To my “words friend”, who brought this treasure to my life, I have made a Blimunda doll – the character from the book “Baltasar and Blimunda” (“Memorial do convento” in Portuguese) as a memorial to all those persecuted, misunderstood, in front of their time, and those all-seeing people, who have been so groundlessly condemned just because they were different and they followed their dream…