It's the heart, afraid of breaking,
That never, learns to dance.
It's the dream, afraid of waking,
That never, takes the chance.
It's the one, who won't be taken,
Who cannot, seem to give.
And the soul, afraid of dying,
That never, learns to live.
E tudo começou com um virar e preencher de páginas e canetas baratas, envoltas em fumaça de cigarros alheios e xícaras de chá.
No seu mundo nada mais se perderia: agulhas no palheiro.