will be that what we cooked tonight at four, rather than a snack dinner seemed a failure, which is now the sky is white on the roofs of houses and a white sky does not promise never anything too positive, will be cigarette butts abandoned in the ashtray in the living room. Will be our endless conversations on the mood and the anxiety states. It will be the coffee that heats the veins and mixes them with the words that we can not tell us, the words and concepts we have in mind and which do not want it out by following any logic. Calexico and discussions will be the series if it came first the chicken or the egg, and if we feel more for the specific material to be fried or domestic birds. Or simply be seen as if things in the world today, if only crack head can be an acceptable solution, that's what comes out we will deal with quiet, then.
will be your guides for sports or the Vodafone asking me unique business and offered to return in ten years I have never offered, or even better than hours spent arguing until the traffic light turns green and we start again. To get lost in the countryside still asleep for those troubled streets who may not even have a name. What should we give it to him. In the streets of a city swept by wind and sea, to calculate how large a block would be and how many there might be isolated from an x-point y, then we are. In my heart there are several blocks and a highway that runs through it with you as always looking a little 'around that seems to be the last to follow the track of your thoughts with me that without me you know it on the shore seat, which is not never know. Even if I trust that the time has close and nothing has been lost, never, and all that we have collected with their eyes, we have put in boxes well wrapped, decorated with pages torn from an old book and dipped in tea, to make it look even older.
Tell me, is not it? With that in your dreams Annarella stops being just a song and becomes a kind of consecration, a handover. Maybe because it is so easy to play. And tell me, especially if it is the fault of the years are slipping over or is it our fault that we do not pay too much attention. The revolution, love, revolution, the storming of the Bastille, we are the revolution, with no reported Print without saying that we need to see better and see each other before the others. We simply take to the streets to embrace amid the noise of gunfire, in that white sky that promises what he has promised. At best, here is full of arcades, to catch his breath.
will be your guides for sports or the Vodafone asking me unique business and offered to return in ten years I have never offered, or even better than hours spent arguing until the traffic light turns green and we start again. To get lost in the countryside still asleep for those troubled streets who may not even have a name. What should we give it to him. In the streets of a city swept by wind and sea, to calculate how large a block would be and how many there might be isolated from an x-point y, then we are. In my heart there are several blocks and a highway that runs through it with you as always looking a little 'around that seems to be the last to follow the track of your thoughts with me that without me you know it on the shore seat, which is not never know. Even if I trust that the time has close and nothing has been lost, never, and all that we have collected with their eyes, we have put in boxes well wrapped, decorated with pages torn from an old book and dipped in tea, to make it look even older.
Tell me, is not it? With that in your dreams Annarella stops being just a song and becomes a kind of consecration, a handover. Maybe because it is so easy to play. And tell me, especially if it is the fault of the years are slipping over or is it our fault that we do not pay too much attention. The revolution, love, revolution, the storming of the Bastille, we are the revolution, with no reported Print without saying that we need to see better and see each other before the others. We simply take to the streets to embrace amid the noise of gunfire, in that white sky that promises what he has promised. At best, here is full of arcades, to catch his breath.
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