Post-Sunday blues.
Slapping myself on the cheek to figure out which finger hurts. You don't get what you don't want.
The tortoise and the hare. Who's loss is it?
I rest my eyes, but I can't see the capillaries.
When you keep envisioning yourself holding a pistol, you know something is not that right.
When you keep laughing aloud at your dream every time you fall into a stupor, you know you should not sleep at all.
When you keep on at it, you keep on at it.
The more I know you, the more I know myself. Or do I?
I want to know you, I want to see your face, I want to know you more
You brought the colour back into my eyes
This feels like a bad French movie. When the sky has lost its colour.
Slapping myself on the cheek to figure out which finger hurts. You don't get what you don't want.
The tortoise and the hare. Who's loss is it?
I rest my eyes, but I can't see the capillaries.
When you keep envisioning yourself holding a pistol, you know something is not that right.
When you keep laughing aloud at your dream every time you fall into a stupor, you know you should not sleep at all.
When you keep on at it, you keep on at it.
The more I know you, the more I know myself. Or do I?
I want to know you, I want to see your face, I want to know you more
You brought the colour back into my eyes
This feels like a bad French movie. When the sky has lost its colour.
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