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One Day The Only Butterflies Left Will Be In Your Chest As You March Towards Your Death...
Bring Me The Horizon featuring Amy Lee
On the verge of no return, why'd you keep fucking it up? Don't wanna have to bury you, but nothing seems to get through your skull One day, the only butterflies left will be in your chest As you march towards your death, breathing your last breath I hate to say, "I told you so", but look how the bruises show
Tell me, how is it gonna feel without my arms wrapped around, wrapped around you? Bet it feels pretty real when your skin starts to peel from the bone You were dead to the world, now I'm dead to you Haunting your own house, nothing to lose How did I let you sink your fangs so deep? Ah You know you can't breathe on your own
Past the point of rescuing, why'd I keep pushing my luck? The hole I wore into your soul has got too big to overlook One day, the only butterflies left will be in our chests As we march towards our death, breathing our last breath I thought we had a future, but we ain't got a chance in hell
So tell me, how is it gonna feel without my arms wrapped around, wrapped around you? Bet it feels pretty real when your skin starts to peel from the bone You were dead to the world, now I'm dead to you Haunting your own house, nothing to lose I let you sink your fangs so deep, ah You know you can't breathe on your own
How can you breathe on your own?
The sun is setting on our love, I fear Letting our loneliness out into the atmosphere The tides have turned in on our chance to turn it 'round I never thought I'd see my fingernails fall out Love isn't in the air, love isn't in the air Love isn't in the air, love isn't in the air
UK & USA
Só morremos de nós mesmos.
Herberto Helder, Servidões
BR
A felicidade é a consciência profunda de que se escapou de um perigo enorme.
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Todo o amor começa antes de começar, devia saber.
Começa num encontro que se não teve.
Vergílio Ferreira, Na Tua Face
Se eu quisesse, enlouquecia.
Sei uma quantidade de histórias terríveis. Vi muita coisa, contaram-me casos extraordinários, eu próprio… Enfim, às vezes já não consigo arrumar tudo isso. Porque, sabe?, acorda-se às quatro da manhã num quarto vazio, acende-se um cigarro… Está a ver? A pequena luz do fósforo levanta de repente a massa das sombras, a camisa caída sobre a cadeira ganha um volume impossível, a nossa vida… compreende?… a nossa vida, a vida inteira, está ali como… como um acontecimento excessivo… Tem de se arrumar muito depressa. Há felizmente o estilo. Não calcula o que seja? Vejamos: o estilo é um modo subtil de transferir a confusão e violência da vida para o plano mental de uma unidade de significação. Faço-me entender? Não? Bem, não aguentamos a desordem estuporada da vida. E então pegamos nela, reduzimo-la a dois ou três tópicos que se equacionam. Depois, por meio de uma operação intelectual, dizemos que esses tópicos se encontram no tópico comum, suponhamos, do Amor ou da Morte. Percebe? Uma dessas abstracções que servem para tudo. O cigarro consome-se, não é?, a calma volta. Mas pode imaginar o que seja isto todas as noites, durante semanas ou meses ou anos?
Herberto Helder, Os Passos Em Volta
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