We've changed, honey boo - matilde campilho

As predicted in the records, you're now much more into astrology, and I'm into studying the coffees served on the roadside. The police aren't looking for us anymore. The six-hundred-day court decided that the mix-up we did with the birds' names is no longer a matter for internal security. Encrypted messages in medicine leaflets, treacherous aromas sneaked into ice cream packets, whistling in the traffic light operator's ears—it all stopped. They almost arrested us for influence peddling, but now the urban areas are very quiet. Daniel, however, is dead. Walter fell silent on the way to the composition, and the newspapers use strange dates in their headlines. Next to those pictures of airplanes and uniformed men appears the name of the sixteenth month. Everything has changed, my dear, and the distance between us certainly wasn't the cause of the whole explosion. There are more than 39 different brands of coffee, not counting the instant mixes. The teachers at Westbridge prefer it strong. Off-mission astronauts drink light coffee, just in case of some emergency – anyone who understands gravity is very aware of the connection between lightness and sleep. Before horoscopes and maps, you paid some attention to the soldier's awakening. I think it had something to do with light or melancholy, it certainly had everything to do with belief. I mean, you worked at the printing press and I still keep the magazine where you planted the portrait of the big guy bowing at dawn. We talked a lot about princes back then, and princes belong to the mornings. Every motel serves a different coffee, damn it. I can distinguish the air of China from the wind of Kazakhstan in a minute. We change, honey boo, but the climographs remain.