What mostly bothers you is my breathlessness and I’ll certainly try to control
it.
What mainly anooys yoou is the awfull weired colour of my shoes,
but I’m ready to go for miles and miles without…
Ain’t that romantic and unrealistic, passionate?
Ain’t that romantic and shameful enough?
What mostly bothers you is my irregular breathing and I’ll surely try to control it.
It’s always exciting this conscious and dizzy freefall and I thank you for
pusching me, as usual, from the top…
Ain’t that romantic and unrealistic, passionate?
Ain’t that romantic and visionary, extravagant?
Ain’t that romantic and fanciul, bellissimo?
Ain’t that romantic and shameful enough?
It’s killing all my inspiration, this boring daily affection.
No melodramatic, whispered songs, you’re the writer and I am the pale ink of your words…
Ain’t that romantic and unrealistic, passionate?
Ain’t that romantic and shameful enough?
Ain’t that romantic enough?
Ain’t that romantic enough?
Ain’t that romantic enough?