Well, boys, Corvinus is the author of this site, who have created it from the start to the end (with some contributions of other great friends).

He lived a lot and died several times; he always tried to leave a track on himself, without knowing what symbol to use, what mark.
The women who crossed his life like arrows or tides always tear something out of him: he didn't find a mark for his mobile soul or a soul for a hated and known mark.
In this way the necessity and sufficiency of his writing born; necessary to stop on paper what was being torn from him, sufficient to make him feel alive and dead at the same time.
The principal source of inspiration for his writings have been the women and, much more than in them for themselves, in the distorted and perfect image that he drew on their mobile and wild shapes. Different women, girls, lovers, wifes, mothers with their own peculiarities and seen by the same sensitivity.
From this point of view, love become a cosmic, absolute, generalized "saudade", without a purpouse, that brings us always to the war with our limits ; the ones that are imposed and that we secretely adore.
Women have always been in the center of his life and their essence, music, has always been the bond almost concrete between his soul and reality.

It is difficult to talk about the relation between Corvinus and music. We would say that he loved it, that he adored it, that he listened to it in a sort of inviolable and holy meditation. But all the things that we could say would be not appropriate to describe that relation, impossible between a man and an art, but conceivable between a man and a woman.
Music was the wife of Corvinus, his lover, sexy and malicious, but she was also mother, daughter of his fingers and interpret of his dreams. He found in music a plausible but not realistic explanation of himself. He saw himself in the music he listened, listening to himself and to the things that his heart said to answer the notes' soft affirmations.
He spoke with music, which was his companion, dumb and silent, but ready to make you understand with a glance the judgement, the most sincere opinion, just as some women with particular sensitivity. He found in music that sincerity that he was not able to demonstrate to himself, a kind of loyalty typical of that forms of life which live with with man, but that are unable to communicate with him.
As with women, Corvinus tried sometimes to dominate music, thinking to be successful, to teach something to it; some other times he lie in his arms, with the sense fainted. Then he forgot, tearing  his soul from that body full of preoccupations and responsabilities and he let time flow without holding it, without praying it to stop, but thanking it to flow between the notes making them living.
And it was in a day of December, the 28th of December 1997, that Corvinus discovered he thing that would have changed his life making of him a man much more conscious of himself and of the things that can be.

He entered that day in the room of the brother, that room that he knew perfectly, having lived in it for some years. But in that moment it appeared blurred, while a soft breeze of warm air tried to push him out of the room. Walking in the dark corridor he started to perceive the beating of that breeze, the breathe that was hidden in it, like an elf walking silently in the lair of the dragon which breathe regularly in its golden sleep.
The air was wet as in certain days with the fog, but the water that condensed on his skin was warm and had a strange color.
His brother was on a chair in the middle of the room, looking the stereo, in the mood of listening to something, something that Corvinus didn't hear,... but perceive.
He advanced and the air gained a definite shape and the breeze started to become concrete: it was music. Yes, music, only music, absolutely music. It was music which breathed on him, that warmed him and that condensed on his skin. The sensation was familiar, though. That air was already been breathed, as when we return in the home where we stayed in the first year of our life and the first thing we recognize is the air, the odour, the perfume of the walls, of the floor which sustained and observed us for so many years. He knew that music, but in that particular place and time, it had a particular tension, a different language.
Corvinus reached the stereo and nobody wanted to interrupt the vibrations of the cones of the speakers, that cold phisical phenomenon able to give us beats of heart and feelings beyond the most theoretical of physics. He looked at the table... A cyan cover, a face, a look downward. Was it a mirror? He saw then the letters in a knew, loved and never understood word: Madredeus.... O Paraìso. A light, rivers of memories in the time of one second in front of his eyes. One year of past life. The song was Coisas Pequenas.
Corvinus sat on the first chair with that astonished look in the trial to interpret the symbolic language of memories, making it poetry and tracking in it the meaning of his own soul. That music was different from the abitual. That album, that song passed thousand times through him like light through a glass: but that day Corvinus was a diamond and the light of that music couldn't escape from him. And it has not yet escaped. There he understood the intimate meaning of that music, of the music created by those people and sang by that soul. He discovered after a year of listening how that notes could be the only explanation that he can make of himself.
From then Madredeus and Corvinus have been the same thing: love.