Los escritores viven de la infelicidad del mundo. En un mundo feliz, no sería escritor.

martes, 20 de septiembre de 2011

Me and you.

Here  you stand victorious the only man who made me came.
Here you stand victorious the only man who made me came!
Here I stand victorious the onl man who made you came!
And when you cried, you cried for us, and when we died you died alone.
Gravity's calling, don't go home. Where are we?
Did what I could, for one is us. I always thought that is was for you.
And when I lied, oh I lied for us, because you never heard the truth.
I'm lying alone tonight, don't go home, moving aside  I'm taking you home.
It looks like we could have made it babe. Me and you.
It looks like we could have made it babe. Me and you.
Look at the time is taken us, to get away from what was said.
I'll never leave, I'll always love. You know that all those words are not dead. Buried in yours tonight.
Move aside, I'm taking you home.
On the radio you were that summer song, packing them, making them dance.
A law of your own, taking the time to sing it, I don't need you, but I'm lost.
Where are we? Oh, we love like ghosts, we are ghosts, they're taking dowm our satellite, we are ghost.
I'll follow your start tonight, we are ghosts, if not tonight, then when will she say...

Mejor que cualquier pamplina que pueda escribir yo.
WE ARE NOT GHOSTS

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