| Everything will be chic
|
| Asphalt dries under the tires.
|
| Breathe your freshness on me,
|
| Ask me how I'm so gentle.
|
| It will be non-stop
|
| My melancholy is automatic.
|
| Pedals float underfoot
|
| I don't understand everything, where do I go.
|
| Everything will be tip-top
|
| Follow the light of two headlights.
|
| Washing the dust-binding
|
| Antennas in polyethylene,
|
| You are so alone, but Flight does not require a couple.
|
| Forward, from Venus itself
|
| On your white galley.
|
| With the dawn you will be somewhere
|
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta.
|
| To all those who climbed into your summer,
|
| There are no nerve cells.
|
| I become pure light.
|
| With the dawn you will be somewhere
|
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta.
|
| To all those who climbed into your summer,
|
| There are no nerve cells.
|
| I become pure light.
|
| Everything will be tip-top
|
| A mixture of two poisons in a glass.
|
| Access denied simply
|
| You are higher than the stars.
|
| Just seven notes
|
| To master the distance.
|
| Catch the memories
|
| Sing, ignite.
|
| Everything will be chic
|
| The comet wags its tail
|
| But I don't want tantrums
|
| Let's burn out in the atmosphere.
|
| It's going to be a grieving night
|
| But the morning will still come.
|
| The walls are painted about this,
|
| All the antennas are screaming about it.
|
| With the dawn you will be somewhere
|
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta.
|
| To all those who climbed into your summer,
|
| There are no nerve cells.
|
| I become pure light.
|
| With the dawn you will be somewhere
|
| At the edge of the universe, it's a vendetta.
|
| To all those who climbed into your summer,
|
| There are no nerve cells.
|
| I become pure light. |