The two worlds are so different, living on the streets in Brazil and not knowing whether I’d have food to eat that day, and then coming to a country where people throw food away on a daily basis. There’s no logic to it. It feels like I’m reading about a former life, and if it weren’t for my having such strong emotions and dreams about what’s happened, if it weren’t for it having hurt so much and left such deep marks, I would believe I was reading someone else’s story.
