quarta-feira, 23 de outubro de 2013
and worst than not having money, not having a certain thing to hold in, a job, for instance, the worst is solitude. Not the solitude of being alone, isolated from the world, nor solitude of missing something or someone in particular, but the word solitude, with all its silence and its turmoil.
Postado por Luis Gustavo Cardoso às 06:15
terça-feira, 24 de setembro de 2013
Veio aqui uma mulher. Batia à porta e me chamava. A voz era dura, seca, frágil. Entre o escritório e o corredor ouvi seus punhos sacudindo um pingente e as pulseiras pesadas, os pés colados no chão. Não a conheci nem de primeira nem de segunda vista, mas ela sabia meu nome. Quem lhe emprestara a informação? Rua, prenome, casa, vida. Nada mais dizendo. Os olhos mansos entraram pela sala e ignoraram as estantes, o Kandinsky, a poltrona e um cinzeiro vazio. Mal tinha passado a chave na porta, me virei e ela estava nua: só de sapatilhas. Pôs-se de costas, apoiou os cotovelos na cauda do piano e me disse, oferecendo do rosto o perfil:
Postado por Luis Gustavo Cardoso às 14:32
sexta-feira, 5 de julho de 2013
and now I'm completely in love with a voice. She has first announced her 'moods' in a jazz radio, which by the way is so called jazzradio.com. I was there casually hearing a piano station and boom, there she came from nowhere. Isn't love a strange, curious thing?
Postado por Luis Gustavo Cardoso às 13:30
terça-feira, 2 de julho de 2013
and a car in the middle of the night, as the gate is open, a car in the middle of the night, as a woman says, a car in the middle of the night, as her parents die in front of the lights of the car in the middle of the night, as it seems they were always frozen like that by the car in the middle of the night, as the older seems to move a lip but not, a car in the middle of the night, winds and wrongs, excuses and no uses, so solitary souls, no goals, a car in the middle of the night, as you once said there's nothing to say, a car in the middle of the night, the owl lifts up its song and has just left a falling giant stone upon a car in the middle of the night.
Postado por Luis Gustavo Cardoso às 20:57
sábado, 29 de junho de 2013
and before they bring your body from the past, you may rest some, so the clouds can find you in the right place. Those whose hearts are broken, for them your grave shall always be a shadowy sorrow, non image behind possible being cities. And for love shall be free whatsoever, between these clouds and the earthquake upon your past one may find what he searches. No tiny word, no greater, could be more conspicuous on this matter of living and dying. To dig deep, they say, one should think about himself. What is life but an endless digging one's own grave?
Postado por Luis Gustavo Cardoso às 14:07