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eu queria que você soubesse o quanto eu penso em nós dois
na gente deitado na cama
aquele domingo a tarde
eu tocando sua pele, esquecendo de mim
foi a primeira vez que eu te mostrei aquela música né?
eu queria que você soubesse o quanto me dói toda vez que eu canto ela
no fim eu só escrevo essas músicas porque eu não tenho coragem de dizer na sua cara tudo que eu sinto
no fundo, no fundo eu sabia que aquela era a última vez
mas não tem revolta não
eu quero que a gente se encontre
saudade até que é bom
melhor que caminhar vazio
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2. |
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eu queria saber
como é ser suficiente
ser em quem você pensa
enquanto pega o trem
só queria ter
mais uma noite
pra tocar tua pele
e esquecer de mim
mas não vai dar
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3. |
desculpa vacilo
01:36
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When the mystery of the connection goes, love goes. It's that simple. This suggests that it isn't love that is so important to us but the mystery itself. The love connection may be merely a device to put us in contact with the mystery, and we long for love to last so that the ecstacy of being near the mystery will last. It is contrary to the nature of mystery to stand still. Yet it's always there, somewhere, a world on the other side of the mirror (or the Camel pack), a promise in the next pair of eyes that smile at us. We glimpse it when we stand still.
The romance of new love, the romance of solitude, the romance of objecthood, the romance of ancient pyramids and distant stars are means of making contact with the mystery. When it comes to perpetuating it, however, I got no advice. But I can and will remind you of two of the most important facts I know:
1. Everything is part of it.
2. It's never too late to have a happy childhood.
― Tom Robbins, Still Life with Woodpecker
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