Being alone, I reflected some time, and had a fantasy. You already know my fantasies. I tell you about the imperial visit; I told you of this house of Engenho Novo, reproducing that of Matacavallos ... Imagination was the companion of all my existence, alive, quick, restless, sometimes shy and friendly to pack, the most capable of swallowing campaigns and campaigns, running. I think I read in Tacitus that the Iberian waters conceived by the wind; if it was not in him, it was in another ancient author, who understood keeping this belief in his books. In this particular, my imagination was a great Iberian mare; the small breeze gave him a colt, which was soon to leave Alexander's horse; but let us leave daring and improper metaphors of my fifteen years. Let's just say the case. The fantasy of that hour was to confess to my mother my loves to tell her that she had no ecclesiastical vocation. The conversation about vocation now made me whole, and while it frightened me, it opened a door for me. Yes, that's it, I thought; I will tell my mother that I have no vocation and I confess our courtship; if she doubts, I'll tell you what happened the other day, the hairstyle and the rest ... »
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