Cardiac muscle progenitors plus a dash of cytokines, anyone?

Estava a limpar o caixa dos posts e reparei que ha alguns que ainda estao em formato de rascunho...numa especie de limbo ou vida suspensa, criopreservada (esta da criopreservacao lembra-me outras coisas). Alguns ha meses, outros ha anos (menos de 3). Nao sei se merecem ver a luz nova do leopardo mas nao os consigo apagar...

So my dear, here we are, missing something we had before or something that we never had but believe to be the sort of paradise we deserve and absolutely need, kind of like oxygen.
Isn’t life funny, funny in a fucked up kind of way? That we find ourselves stumbling, struggling to believe that love is still a possibility, that life is still beautiful and that a friend’s smile or a friend’s touch is the closest thing to the feeling of true love? I once told M. that, for some reason (not sure why I can be deserving of such emotional survival skills), every time I lost love, somehow there was always a little piece of heart tissue leftover to regenerate what had been lost to pain and disappointment. As if even my little love muscle is whispering softly, "well, there is still hope, I am with you for the long run and I still have lots of space for new feelings, trust me." I guess that in the midst of sadness, I truly believe that "better things will surely come my [our] way" (Massive attack and Tracy Thorn, "Better things").