MARTA CAIRES

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A pressa

Temos pressa e, quando nos sobra tempo, preenchemos com hobbies que, em menos de nada, são um trabalho, uma canseira, mais uma obrigação. E voltámos à roda gigante

𝙷𝚊́ 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚗𝚎́𝚟𝚘𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚕𝚊́ 𝚕𝚘𝚗𝚐𝚎, 𝚗𝚊 𝚕𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚣𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚞𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚎 𝚓𝚊́ 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊̃𝚘 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚕𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚌𝚊𝚞𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚞𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚊 𝙵𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊. 𝙰 𝚟𝚒𝚍𝚊 𝚊𝚐𝚘𝚛𝚊 𝚎́ 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚘, 𝚊𝚌𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚕𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚛 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊: 𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚌̧𝚊𝚛, 𝚒𝚛 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚛, 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚣𝚎𝚛 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘 𝚗𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚍𝚘 𝚛𝚊́𝚙𝚒𝚍𝚘.

𝚃𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚎, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘, 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚑𝚘𝚋𝚋𝚒𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚎𝚖 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚊𝚍𝚊, 𝚜𝚊̃𝚘 𝚞𝚖 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘, 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊, 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚌̧𝚊̃𝚘. 𝙴 𝚟𝚘𝚕𝚝𝚊́𝚖𝚘𝚜 𝚊̀ 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚊 𝚐𝚒𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎. 𝙴𝚞, 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜, 𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚘-𝚖𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚟𝚎𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖, 𝚗𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚕 𝚛𝚘𝚍𝚊, 𝚊 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚎 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛, 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚎𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚣 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎̂𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚊, 𝚖𝚎 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚍𝚒́𝚌𝚒𝚘.

𝙳𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚛-𝚖𝚎 𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚌̧𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚘 𝚏𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘. 𝙾𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚟𝚘̃𝚎𝚜 𝚐𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚎, 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚌𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚘𝚒𝚜, 𝚕𝚊𝚛𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚜, 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚕𝚒 𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚊, 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚍𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘. 𝙴 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚞𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚣𝚎́𝚖 𝚍𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚊𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘 𝚊𝚕𝚖𝚘𝚌̧𝚘 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚌𝚘, 𝚘𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚋𝚊𝚒𝚡𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚋𝚛𝚊𝚌̧𝚘 𝚎 𝚑𝚘𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚟𝚊́𝚛𝚒𝚘𝚜 𝚘𝚏𝚒́𝚌𝚒𝚘𝚜.

𝙾𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚞𝚖 𝚖𝚞𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎, 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚞𝚒𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚘𝚛𝚒𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚋𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚎𝚜 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚟𝚒𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚙𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚒, 𝚎𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚝𝚎́𝚛𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚞𝚊𝚜 𝚓𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚓𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚍𝚘 - 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚛𝚞𝚒́𝚍𝚘 𝚊̀𝚜 𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚊 𝚌𝚊̂𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝚏𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚊 - 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚒𝚗𝚌𝚕𝚞𝚒𝚛 𝚊 𝚜𝚊𝚕𝚊 𝚍𝚊 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚎𝚟𝚒𝚜𝚊̃𝚘 𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊.

𝙴 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚛 𝚍𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚜𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚚𝚞𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚘 𝚊 𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚛𝚎𝚝𝚎 𝚏𝚒𝚌𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚝𝚘𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚐𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚎𝚝𝚊𝚕. 𝙰𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚊𝚜 𝚛𝚎𝚐𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚏𝚎𝚕𝚒𝚣𝚎𝚜 𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚕𝚑𝚎𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚕𝚊́𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚞𝚖 𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚝𝚛𝚊𝚋𝚊𝚕𝚑𝚘 𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚊 𝚙𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚊𝚗𝚌̧𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚙𝚘𝚍𝚒𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚊́𝚚𝚞𝚒𝚗𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚛 𝚛𝚘𝚞𝚙𝚊 𝚘𝚞 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚊̃𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚖𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚜.

𝙴𝚜𝚝𝚎 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚒𝚛 𝚗𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚊 𝚜𝚎𝚖 𝚊𝚚𝚞𝚎𝚕𝚊𝚜 𝚕𝚘𝚖𝚋𝚊𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚖𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚕𝚌𝚑𝚘̃𝚎𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚕𝚊̃ 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚕𝚞𝚡𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚊𝚕𝚒, 𝚗𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚟𝚒𝚣𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚌̧𝚊, 𝚗𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚖. 𝙽𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚞𝚎́𝚖 𝚜𝚊𝚋𝚒𝚊, 𝚍𝚎 𝚏𝚊𝚌𝚝𝚘, 𝚘 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚘 𝚕𝚞𝚡𝚘. 𝙰𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚖 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚋𝚒́𝚕𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚜𝚎𝚖𝚎𝚕𝚑𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚜, 𝚘𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚖𝚊𝚒𝚜 𝚘𝚞 𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚊 𝚖𝚎𝚜𝚖𝚊 𝚖𝚊𝚗𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚊 𝚎, 𝚗𝚘́𝚜, 𝚘𝚜 𝚏𝚒𝚕𝚑𝚘𝚜 𝚝𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚎́𝚖. 𝙾 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚘𝚒𝚜𝚊 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚛𝚒𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚑𝚘𝚝𝚎́𝚒𝚜.

𝙴𝚛𝚊 𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚘𝚗𝚑𝚘, 𝚊𝚜𝚜𝚒𝚖 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚘 𝚖𝚎𝚞, 𝚊 𝚊𝚍𝚘𝚕𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚎 𝚍𝚎 𝟷𝟺 𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚜, 𝚍𝚎𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚍𝚞𝚛𝚊𝚍𝚊 𝚗𝚘 𝚟𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚒𝚖 𝚍𝚘 𝚝𝚎𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚌̧𝚘 𝚊 𝚟𝚎𝚛 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘𝚜 𝚎 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚒𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚗𝚜, 𝚎𝚖 𝚟𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚍𝚘𝚜 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚖 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚎𝚖 𝙻𝚒𝚜𝚋𝚘𝚊 𝚎 𝚎𝚖 𝚐𝚊𝚗𝚑𝚊𝚛 𝚝𝚊𝚗𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚖𝚘 𝚊 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚖𝚊 𝙰𝚗𝚊, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚛𝚘𝚏𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚘𝚛𝚊. 𝙴 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚝𝚞𝚍𝚘 𝚙𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚒́𝚟𝚎𝚕 𝚚𝚞𝚎, 𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚒𝚊𝚖 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚓𝚞𝚗𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚘𝚜 𝚊𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚖𝚊𝚜 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚕𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚊𝚗𝚌̧𝚊.

𝙽𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚎𝚖𝚙𝚘 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚊 𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚕𝚞𝚡𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖𝚊 𝚌𝚊𝚜𝚊 𝚋𝚘𝚗𝚒𝚝𝚊, 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚟𝚘, 𝚊𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚏𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚊𝚗𝚍𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚘𝚜 𝚜𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚛𝚘 𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚞𝚝𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚘, 𝚌𝚘𝚖 𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚊 𝚙𝚎𝚐𝚊𝚛 𝚊𝚘 𝚋𝚊𝚗𝚌𝚘 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚛 𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚞𝚏𝚘𝚌𝚊𝚛 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚑𝚞𝚟𝚊. 𝙴𝚜𝚜𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚘, 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚗𝚘𝚜𝚜𝚘 𝚎 𝚎𝚛𝚊 𝚙𝚊𝚛𝚊 𝚝𝚘𝚍𝚘𝚜, 𝚑𝚊𝚟𝚎𝚛𝚒𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚌𝚞𝚖𝚙𝚛𝚒𝚛.

𝙰 𝚙𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚜𝚊, 𝚎𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚟𝚘𝚛𝚊𝚐𝚎𝚖 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚗𝚘𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚜𝚘𝚖𝚎 𝚒𝚗𝚝𝚎𝚒𝚛𝚘𝚜, 𝚗𝚊̃𝚘 𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚊 𝚜𝚞𝚋𝚒𝚍𝚘 𝚎𝚗𝚌𝚘𝚜𝚝𝚊 𝚊𝚌𝚒𝚖𝚊. 𝙿𝚘𝚛 𝚊𝚕𝚒, 𝚗𝚊 𝚌𝚞𝚛𝚟𝚊 𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚘𝚗𝚍𝚎 𝚌𝚛𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚒, 𝚘𝚜 𝚍𝚒𝚊𝚜 𝚌𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖 𝚒𝚐𝚞𝚊𝚒𝚜, 𝚕𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜, 𝚎𝚖 𝚝𝚊𝚛𝚍𝚎𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚜𝚎 𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚊𝚜𝚝𝚊𝚟𝚊𝚖, 𝚖𝚘𝚛𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚎 𝚗𝚞𝚖 𝚜𝚒𝚕𝚎̂𝚗𝚌𝚒𝚘 𝚌𝚘𝚛𝚝𝚊𝚍𝚘 𝚊𝚙𝚎𝚗𝚊𝚜 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚛𝚛𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚍𝚎 𝚛𝚘𝚕𝚊𝚖𝚎𝚗𝚝𝚘𝚜 𝚚𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚎𝚜𝚌𝚒𝚊 𝚘 𝚌𝚊𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚑𝚘 𝚘𝚞 𝚙𝚎𝚕𝚘 𝚕𝚊𝚍𝚛𝚊𝚛 𝚍𝚎 𝚞𝚖 𝚌𝚊̃𝚘.

* Jornalista

IN "DIÁRIO DE NOTÍCIAS DA MADEIRA" - 08/10/23 .