#adao

[depre-god]

[gosto-disto]

Existem exceções, mas têm uns caras... . . . posted on Instagram - https://instagr.am/p/CHQN5mdAGWz/

[barminacuranaphotos]

So much red in here.

[a-day-at-once]

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[afonsoarrepiaferreira]

Lynnia  ( Pedro Menezes and I ) during soundcheck Live at ADAO - Barreiro, Lisbon

📷 Vera Marmelo

[a-day-at-once]

A sneak peak

Wondering what an entry looks like? What to expect? The text that follows is but a demonstration of what’s to come!

January 1st, it seems.

There’s something rather archaic about writing in the first page of a journal while being bathed in nothing but the light of a candle. Normally I wouldn’t mind it much, it does set a mood, but as the lone flame flickers, so does my soul, out of the impaling feeling of pure, raw, suffocating boredom.

Archaic as it might be, Benjamin Franklin’s been dead for quite some time now and the current world revolves around the connection he found between lightning and tiny electric sparks, an energy that has been temporarily taken from us.

With the storm raging outside, there’s been a general blackout in this part of town. No internet, no television, no working electronic devices, just me and the apartment I’ve been neglecting to clean for way too long. I didn’t clean anything at all, mind you, I was just moving and kicking things around to ease my access to the ceiling fan with the chair I dragged behind me and the rope that I still have around my neck.

From a higher angle, my feet on the seat of the chair, a blur through the futile tears I blinked away; that’s how I spotted you, partially hidden under layers of discarded smelly clothing, inside a plastic storage box with the last remnants of proof that I’ve actually been to college at some point in this life of mine. A shame I didn’t graduate, but also not really? Art school can set you free as much as it can castrate your spirit.

But there you were, all faux leather cover, a gift cast aside at the time, but full of stories yet untold. Unwritten, rather. Am I talking to you or are you talking to me? Am I writing with the hopes of it being read, or so that I can figure out what I’m trying to tell myself?

I only noticed the passage of the year because the neighbors from downstairs helpfully screamed the countdown with an excitement I only wished I could share. I laid my shaky hands on you with seven seconds to go and made the decision to start writing at the exact moment they yelled “zero”.

Am I just lonely, diary? Simply sad? New Year is supposed to be about new beginnings, but in the darkness of a world that moves onto 2019 without light, your pages called for an entry. For what it’s worth…

You stopped me from ending right at the beginning.

I end this entry with the desk lamp flickering awake.

- @abyssiniana

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Pedro, o Velho, abril 2026