An ongoing diary of Lisboa, the city to which I do and do not belong. My personal map of it is incomplete, made up of strategic omissions, inexplicable gaps, sentimental repetitions, and I still don't know exactly where or what it is; it is pregnant with other cities, real or imaginary, known or just desired. I long for the imagined interiors where I don't get to enter, and for the sense of belonging that I never achieve, but I also long to escape this place. I take the same walks around its streets over and over again, balancing disquiet and transfiguration, melancholy and luminous joy, daytime dreaming and insomnia.