::27.1.04::
BLÁ
Eu gosto da guitarrinha do cara dos Strokes. Mais uma nova aquisição, estou adorando as musiquinhas, as guitarrinhas e os refrõezinhos que são tãaao interessantes. Essa aqui vai de mim para mim mesma, porque eu simplesmente NÃO CONSIGO PARAR, não é?!
Písica total.
You Talk Way Too Much
The Strokes
Now we're out of time
I said it's my fault
It's my fault
Can't make good decisions
It won't stop
I can't stop
Give me some time, I just need a little time
Give me some time, I just need a little time
Give me some time, I just need a little time
Give me some time, I just need a little time
You talk way too much
You talk way too much
It's only the end
It's only the end...hey.
We don't get the news
He says why not?
Why not?
Forget what you heard
'Cause it won't stop
it won't stop
Give 'em some time, They just need a little time
Give 'em some time, They just need a little time
Give 'em some time, They just need a little time
Give 'em some time, They just need a little time
You talk way too much
You talk way too much
It's only the end
It's only the end as you know it...
"You're not supposed to say that
you taught me too much"
Is this how it ends?
Is this how it ends?
:: Marcia Furriel 4:12 p.m.
[+] ::
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"...[R]eturning to the Red Drum for sets, to hear Bird, whom I saw distinctly digging Mardou several times also myself directly into my eye looking to search if I was really the great writer I thought myself to be as if he knew my thoughts and ambitions or remembered me from other night clubs and other coasts, other Chicagos--not a challenging look but the king and founder of the bop generation at least the sound of it in digging his audience digging his eyes, the secret eyes him-watching, as he just pursed his lips and let great lungs and immortal fingers work, his eyes separate and interested and humane, the kindest jazz musician there could be while being and therefore naturally the greatest--watching Mardou and me in the infancy of our love and probably wondering why, or knowing it wouldn't last, or seeing who it was would be hurt, as now, obviously, but not quite yet, it was Mardou whose eyes were shining in my direction, though I could not have known and now do not definitely know--except the one fact, on the way home, the session over the beer in the Mask drunk we went home on the Third Street bus sadly through night and throb knock neons and when I suddenly leaned over her to shout something further (in her secret self as later confessed) her heart leapt to smell the "sweetness of my breath" (quote) and suddenly she almost loved me--"
DO LIVRO
The Subterraneans
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