Maybe just cynical or disillusioned.
I'm nothing like that woman.
I had an accident. I lost my sight.
I was taken in.
I'm fine here.
Safe and well-cared for.

That's all.
No, there's something else.
I don't know.
Let's say I can't lie.
Even if telling the truth
is difficult.

How do you know you tell the truth?
I just know, that's all.
- Letters from locals?
- Yes.

May I?
Go on.
You don't open them.
As I said, I don't decide.
Precisely... Here's something.
A short poem by Omar Khayam.
I'll read it to you.
The blind considered Khayam
to be wise and intelligent.

"The circle we cross reveals not,
"Neither beginning nor end.
"Nothing pronounces the truth:
"From where we come is where we go!
"The Master created all things,
"But why condemn them
to imperfection?

"If their images prove ugly,
whose fault is it?

"And if beautiful,
why seek their ruin?"

You know, I'm just a whore
from Brazil.

I don't understand all you say.
That's why I mentioned my painting.