Angel Alucard

Whatever I could have wanted to say or to, is officially dead. Inside of me, the myst of darkness comes softly. So softly, that it hits so hard andno one ever seems able to understand or to recognize me. It's ok. I'll be ok. The myst of darkness comes with sunny days, grey days, sunny days that turn into grey days. The thunderstorm is promised for a while now, but nothing until now. Maybe today. Maybe tonight. She speaks and speaks and she seems to doesn't understand I do not care. Stay away. Go meet your friends - maybe they're working this afternoon? They seem to be putting aside. That's ok, the task to move along is easier for me. I look away and my mond drifts from one issue to another. They come by, they show some support and bring me some "future and hypotetical food". Junk food has never ever been good to anyone, but even the best ones can be kinda "junky" from times to times. I feel trapped in a huge trap - Universe itself playing it...

Não tenho palavras a dizer. Simplesmente ouvir... e sentir.

Another Birth , by the Persian poet and film maker, Forough Farrokhzad . My whole being is a dark chant which will carry you perpetuating you to the dawn of eternal growths and blossoming in this chant I sighed you sighed in this chant I grafted you to the tree to the water to the fire. Life is perhaps  a long street through which a woman holding  a basket passes every day Life is perhaps a rope with which a man hangs himself from a branch life is perhaps a child returning home from school. Life is perhaps lighting up a cigarette in the narcotic repose between two love-makings or the absent gaze of a passerby who takes off his hat to another passerby with a meaningless smile and a good morning . Life is perhaps that enclosed moment when my gaze destroys itself in the pupil of your eyes and it is in the feeling  which I will put into the Moon's impression  and the Night's perception. In a room as big as loneliness my heart which is as b...

Como se a vida não fosse já o bastante. Sem palavras num minuto, logo no outro carregado delas. O sentimento não cessa, não cede, não dá um minuto de sossego, não dá uma mínima trégua. Correm pensamentos. Ideais. Se escrever não me assiste, desenho. Sou livre.