all our plans have surely died, even though we've yet to go outside. your sky never darkens, it never disappears--you throw up all over the atmosphere.
where do the old songs go when we soon leave this place? into our memories that will soon get replaced? where do the old songs go when we soon clear our beds? into our bloody wounds, with the rest left unsaid?
out of our hair and into the busy streets, take off our shoes and learn to use our feet. sounds are inanimate like caio's written prose. alessandro doesn't think that, but i suppose that rose-colored lenses blind and kill your sight, so tell me to come back and i'll get off this flight.
where do the old songs go when i soon leave your land? it doesn't seem to mat--wait, show me more rembrandt.
this is a bad farewell, i hope you're still my friend. i will come back and say "hi" if i'm given the chance.