Time, all the long red lines, that take control, of all the smoke-like streams that flow into your dreams, that big blue open sea, that can't be crossed, that can't be climbed, just born between, oh the two white lines, distant gods and faded signs, of all those blinking lites, you had to pick the one tonite...
Holes, dug by little moles, angry jealous spies, got telephones for eyes, come to you as friends, all those endless ends, that can't be tied, oh they make me laugh, and always make me cry, til they drop like flies, and sink like polished stones, of all the stones I throw, how does that old song go? how does that old song go?...
P.S. - A 29 de Novembro na Aula Magna espero que se repita...
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