Long Way Home

Sedate my crooked mind,
and unsettle my heart.
'Cause I may not be here by morning,
And I want to live tonight.

what's a mine is mine.

For you were made from dust,
but dust doesn't breaks down.
It piles up and flies.

EEEEEAAAAAAAAAAHHH!!!

Keep going.
Fasterslowerbiggershorterholiermessierthanyourself.
(Keep pushing into me.)
(Keep tearing the veil.)

'Cause nothing really matters.
Not for enough time.

And the nonsense has its meaning,
for me everytime.

But the truth rewinded
always gets stuck.
Doesn't matter how much you spent.
How much you sold.

It was after we started exchanging toothbrushes,
that you became my favorite soap.
And imperfect became fine,
when your face turned into my only mirror.

In this beheaded body of similarities and difficulties
that I'm always trying to rocket through,
I found what I wasn't looking packed in the form of you.

If you don't change lanes you'll never feel the crash,
and crashes is all we are, all we'll ever be.

Fall for me

The evil eye that watches everything.
All these years,
All those tears,
And you're still following shadows.

What I can't wait to know,
is if you're gonna mess it up again.
It's so unnatural for you to make it right,
It's so hard for me not to watch.

Dressed in black.
With the wind in my face.
One hand in my pocket.
the other holding an unlit cigar.
humming something only I can identify.
And nobody knows exactly why,
but they all turn a second time when leaving.

Learning differently
from the same experience,
that's when you define who you are.
And you can amuse yourself,
(discreet smiles that hide in black beards)
remembering cartoons of your childhood,
specially,

with a gun in your hand.

Dinotron

We are robots with paintings instead of screens.
We tap rythmically our foot when the rest drills for profit.
I am a robot that doesn’t like robots.
That gets tangled in circuits and loses its keys.
I will not be updated.
I will not be outdated.
I like orange better than steel.
I cannot like anything, or so I believe.
And if you’d come and ask me.
I’d lay my bits, forever erased.

Flying Fish

Movies & Flights,
Made me lose track of time.
I can’t remember when was it,
That I was, who I was.

In the island of the flying fish,
Where little is known,
But everything is lived.
That’s where we met.
We were no different than those who chose the cities,
Except that we were aware of our confusion.

In the island of the flying fish,
No Word is prohibitted,
But some are rarely understood.
‘cause we speak through our hands,
our eyes, and our hearts.

Possible doesn’t make probable,
And friends as instable as us,
Turn the odds for whoever wants’em.

In the Island of the flying fish,
Where we met.
Where I had to die a few times.
Where silver wings showed me that life takes you nowhere,
When you’re already there.

Saigon

It's never right.
It's almost never funny.
And everybody still does it.

Being a fuck-up comes with being born. Controlling your desire to be a fuck-up is a discipline that if you haven't been taught by ten, then you lost the battle.
People love being a fuck-up almost as much as they crave success. The funny thing is, success comes with a much more complex and boring process, and it never depends entirely on yourself. BUT, fucking it up, is something you can easily do almost every day of your senseless life.

You cannot do it every day, because you have to win people's confidence so you can fuck up. But still, there are enough people in this world, gullible enough, so you can disappoint them by your unique way of fucking up.

Forgetting to call.
Falling asleep and missing a date.
Eating that piece of cake you shouldn't.
Speaking your arrogant mind, while drunk.
Blacking out and all the activities that come with it.
Cheating on your girlfriend, again.
Backing out on the moments of truth.

My god, so many ingenious ways of letting people down the list could go on and on. And some people just can't get enough.

Life is obvious enough so that when you're a grown man you know the few rules of game play. But knowing is not enough. Knowing beforehand that you are fucking things up is not simply enough. Threats or advices of your loved ones is not enough. Discerning the possible consequences is not enough.

Nothing can't stop the rush. The thrill of screwing your life and the life of others.

And you could say you don't know any better. But you'd be lying. Every person in his life has felt what's it like to do things right.

To score a goal. To be there for a friend. To help without obligations. Every one.
But that... is... not... enough.

You have to crash so you can really get it out of your system.

And the best part (or is it the worst?) is, when you become good at it, you learn that all this time, you have been letting yourself down TOO!

It's brilliant really. Nothing amazes me more than this sincere feeling of making things the wrong way. Without a target or motif!

Just doing it wrong because when the wreck arrives, it will be maybe more interesting, more amusing, more... more of this je ne se qua that we all hope for.

And it never comes. Each time you screw up you realize it's more pathetic, more pitiful, less glamorous, less interesting... just... mere... sadness. IF it's still SOMETHING, 'cause normally this sense of void is all that remains.

(sigh)

Ha ha ha! But we do it all over again! IT'S FREAKING AMAZING! Knowing this is not enough. And some people conceal it better than others, that's for sure, but we all carry it in our veins. We fool ourselves. We make pretend.

The higher human race, its reason and the labyrinth that comes with it. Everybody plays the game, like it or not. Everybody gets defeated, so that everybody wins.

And everybody... everybody loves being a fuck-up. And the farthest you get to fucking up, the more appealing it'll be.
If more of people's hopes and illusions are deposited on you, the more you'll feel the grotesque attraction of fucking it all up.

'Cause, listen well: being a fuck up is STILL not enough...

YOU HAVE TO BE THE BIGGEST.

Cul-de-Sac

Ext. Ron's porch - Night

- Alive people don't LOSE time damn it.
Time loses alive people.
And time found me.
And it's time I get lost again.

I don't give a shit if you're fat, if you're a junkie, if you have bad taste, if you're a loser, if you love life, if you live for "the cool stuff", if your parents were hippies or yuppies, if you miss your dog, your childhood or that one girl you really cared about. I don't give a shit 'cause nobody ever gave a shit about my stuff more than me.

- Jess...

- Wait! Wait before you keep on blathering about shit you don't know about! Just look at you man. You've been smoking for thirty years, not even liking it. Just because everytime you light up you think you're cool, and you think you're dad, and you think everybody in the room feels that way. How many people have you seen light up a cigarrette that you just don't care about, that you just don't feel nothing for, that you think look pretty bad smoking? Huh?

I don't like being me, with you. I hate myself for saying this, hell I'm even sorry for being this ungrateful. But the truth is I stopped being Jess a long time ago, and there are so many reasons, but the only one that matters is that I like myself better not being Jess, or not being with you. And you don't like me now, I get it. But we can't keep on talking about our favorite Bob Dylan's song forever.

- Well, unfortunately for you my friend, whatever your new name is, you are right. And there's always a price for being right.

- I'm leaving bro. Forever.

- You left twenty years ago, but you were too scared to come here and say goodbye.