Angel Alucard

I've closed the other blog I owned. I mean it, the privacy settings on it allow only invited readers to it and I haven't invited anyone. Why? Well, first and foremost, it's my blog, my rules, my decision. Then, it came a time that the link, the blog title weren't exactly what I truly wanted. A joke (that at a certain time became offensive - and do not get me onto the same level of those Internet users who get offended even by the farts of Gods themselves! ) that made sense, times after, as my allowance to have people joking at me. A joke that I want dead and buried and that I have turned onto something new, on a new platform. As for this very old blog... I thought about closing it too. I mean, years passed by since I have opened it, to share images to which I'd add somr phrases of my own. I got advised to write longer texts and I did so, after deleting those initial entries. In the meantime, more entries and images have been constantly deleted. I don't regret i

I should be drawing or editediting my diaries. It's been a while. It's been a while and things haven't been made in that time. I feel lost, yet too comfortable in such a mess. Isn't this sad? I light up another cigarette and the music of the Marchas Populares de Lisboa breaks the silence of the room. I should be doing something. Instead, I smoke and slowly type these words on my mobile's screen. I should be drawing. The paper and the pencil are right on my legs. The diaries have been waiting for too long. I should be reading, choosing, cropping drawings to be sticked on a new diaries' pages. The night melts away slowly. Hours drip away. I choose the quietness of this room to the crowd in Lisbon. At a point, I would freak out. I try to get focused. I am driven away by the rhythmic of the music. I turn my face aside. I'm freaked out. I'm freaked out about everything. It's over.

In the end, it doesn't really matters what you do nor how hard you try. You don't care anymore, to tell the truth. In the end, I'll stay quiet in a corner, running from such contacts with strangers, to try that people's attention lays on someone else. I noticed, one more time, that I need to be left alone. It won't work. I won't stand anything.

Sinto-me triste e sem razão. Ou talvez as tenha. Quem sabe? Quem se importa? O mundo continua a girar da mesma forma e as estações sucedem-se, impiedosas. Não importa.

Quiet night. We live and keep living. We meet and keep meeting. There is nothing else than those quiet nights. Or agitated nights, when you feel the stress of danger. There is nothing else than the night. We walk those streets. Talk and feel the night, feel highed, feel everything and nothing at all. Go. Keep going. Keep fighting and struggle. Do not give up now. That's not an option. Not now. Not anymore. Keep going. Even if you don't allow yourself to feel, to love, keep going. Keep fighting. What you believe, keep believing, keep fighting for your beliefs. We've been made for that. Our ultimate belief is that we gotta annihilate each others. And we keep fighting. We keep working on our own extinction. Quiet night. And none of those phrases make sense. Do they?

"Why are you crying? " the man asked. The little girl kept crying, under the pale moonlight, silently. "Why are you crying?! " he then insisted. "Because you're dead" the little girl said, with her face hidden between her hands. Then se proceeded: "you juat don't know yet!" The man grabbed the little girl from the shoulder, with a face of incredulity, and yelled ferociously : "What did you said? " The little girl turned to him, with a huge open jaw that had enormous fangs coming out and cuted the man's neck. He fell on the floor, with blood gushing as his body shaked, until the last drop of blood dripped. The little girl's big tongue became a small, normal girl's tongue in a nlrmal girl's face. "I told you" she said, as she kicked the corpse before walking away and disappearing in the woods, "we were dead. You just didn't knew it"