When I drink coffee … I think. – By Alexandre Filipe Moura Sá When I drink coffee . – Full text. – With art and that was after preliminarily understood and captured … Sigh! They dared to challenge. Arrested only by a thread. They saw, but not repaired. Something exciting and eloquently passed a look of understanding and behold the brightness of the look, it was in that place that was consumed and talked and was already present coffee. The writer is the one that depends on nothing, but everything needs and makes the last gasp of necessity if Embata what does not, but it causes more suffering needs to feed his desire never completed … Then a female voice … listen up girl and a look lightweight but deeply puzzling, how could there be?!, And everyone but no one could feel for him, because it involves what thought you said, so the flourishing one day questioned about the sanity or insanity supposed to be mad, he does not, but always want more, suffer in the words he wrote but did not say that there is one that saw the write and read and then commented: “it” yes he writes and does not stop, how do you stop writing, only a fool writes is everything, and a muted knew where in the world would cover … The only known between-known and convicted. The pen was estimated over an apex, all raises will listen, but as already disclosed, but it is never written a blunder is always an ugly way of putting alcohol in the wound, all tatters-it never omitted them because they leave marks between them . Had a simple pen that fascinating, as was only acutely, as a way to feel the sharp pain the most effective blade, cutting nozzle lacerating pen … and ink always infinite and restrained mind seeing that informed who had no right extreme that he passed, it’s crazy, how are people to rest, because the other always speaks, and usually respond to what you want, everything below the simple need to hello, how are you and bye. And the question was that he wrote and did not fear anything at all just want what. But as everything depended and thought that the best weapon the infinite and unifying form of a science of letters that formed phrases charm and always as unhappy turned. He epitomizes and it enjoyed the thirsty, so the conversation was, I can not speak, sorry but if you want to have a book to show you, is that I have written what many think and what they have said, no one has read or even understood, that that head would quit smoking over black, it’s not that simple word, broken, turns and behold that in a simplistic way he said the time, and was heard “it here or” those who do not read, but once shown the wisdom of writing someone devoted himself to read and understand someone who never read, was engaged and said, oh dude writes, was heard once more “respect.” However respect for the writer is only if you want to know who he is or get the idea then he writes? Nothing was said, and, behold, to stop saying “O friend,” since to me the “coffee of the writer,” to myself ventured kid. A coffee, a break, a request confidential and gestured a little surprised, however he was writing and how someone can write without having to read and write at the speed of thought … (Continued) The other said is the heart, but these pains are those who have never felt and never forget them. The man turned to me and said, see there, is what I can, and a toothpick bouncing between the teeth and the blink of an eye, a little mischievous and where she wondered what he did and said, and simple, the only , pen and paper on the table and a desired coffee and its respective glass of tap water. He knew only what he wrote only when it suited him. However all you auscultavam the same sweetness, it’s weird, the guy is weird, ie, it goes up. How’s it going up without leaving your merely writing. Someone heard the lad? I speak but it is important to see that he does not speak or little, speaks of himself the more he speaks of others. It is the disease of society living and someone always wants to add, look sorry, but do not know him. And yes the man who was a man lived by marginality, that is how I view all beings who surrender and never struggle for life, how to put on the sidelines or sitting on the bank of a river where nothing floats. Well that coffee was the writer, where your pain is craved a change never returned. I mean, it looked like he cut the bills, who found it and read it a point, a story, a story invented a word heard in the many letters written by many, many words formed. In conclusion he wanted but again did not want to, that’s how I see the writing or the poet who expresses wants and does not want, that is all you want and do not want anything, one pulls the other strings and it loosens up the ink they saw what he wrote in his notebook that no one read, and he sang, listened, wrote as if there was nothing else.