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Fatboy crying Life is not easy For butter-hearted people like me. I often dream too much. In dreams, I feel your touch. Love strikes hard, There’s this pain on my chest, But I only need batteries For my radio and some rest. I’m a fatboy crying, A sentimentalist too weak For this elegant world. I’ve spent the last few weeks Trying to be optimistic But optimism has been sold. I still ride your body, I still drive your soul, But I’m a fatboy crying And getting old. Well, I realise You are really, really nice, But then I see You are too nice for me... I’m a fatboy crying, A sentimentalist, an artist Of defeat and large feet So, call me Godzilla, I’m a serial killer, I’m a serious killer Of myself. Damon Durham. Damon at 1:32 da tarde
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outras praias
where words come together as waves, blue and beautiful, dying in the whiteness, but repeating themselves like music notes, from sunrise to sunset to sunrise again. um livro: «Saudades de Nova Iorque», de Pedro Paixão. um filme: «Memento». um disco: «King of limbs», Radiohead. |