Eduardo Alexandre Pinto

Tenho duendes entre os ares que estes olhos fabricam. Ouro trazem e o céu vê-me palitar o centeio que na origem era céu e o ar certo dele.

Na floresta e em sua densa honestidade, onde reluzem em brincadeiras nutritivas, pequenas formas existem para formar a cor, um povoado de fabrico doce. Ujm espelhar narrativo de certos sons tão apátridos como as mãos do vedor na actual celeridade do instante liquido, talvez a impotência da era. Os frutos enrolados na moralidade, no seu empenho silvestre, atiçam o galope da libido, enquanto ali, um pouco mais distante no palpite, algumas sombras aquecem o olhar desconhecido da generosidade.

O paladar que mitiga a dor em questão, entre ser e estar.

Seaten in a nervous solitude, feeling my inside young again with a kind of funny and distracted portrait. The memories from a coherent life, came to remind me of what I’ve said, the love I gave, the timeless nights in fast sensacionism of people and things, real and salted like twisted out of the blues, breaking a dozen of ways of comic hesitations and the care of the black, when hearts were looking stronger for sexuality and the fights turned worst into my eyes, as the holding of those years, are now in me a kind sound as I understand their starting point.

For gravitation and running out of an healthy orbit, people chose, settle time, being in survey of others and the hidden forest of love, is beating at the right time, although the music is terrible (you don’t agree, ok. Cause guitars and microphones aren’t so easy to rise?) Look at me in here, I do not have a personal siege into social control, I call, I evoke my inspiration into the unknown nature of people and keep going in responsible names for the late hours of going so much more, and again