I never felt like crying before over a public accident.
Not for Darfur.
Not for Gaza.
Not for Iraq.
Not when reading about the near destruction of Flandres in World War I. The same Flanders that hosted me no nicely for the past 2 months.
But I must confess I cried when I read about the accident in Congonhas.
A flight I've taken so many times.
People whose routines look so much like mine.
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