The hands, that cute hands of yours,
letting go from the motorcycle's handles.
Losing your tranquility to gravity.
Feeling the asphalt, trying to stop.
Wet floor, with water from the skies and blood.
There was no time for tears.
The pain were gone before you could feel it.
It's not as dramatic as it sounds,
just for the ones who had to stay behind.
We're all alone, missing you to death.
Crying for the pain that took you,
that pain.
If there's any justice in fate, you didn't felt it.
But we do.
*.log - home
*.mp3 - The Postal Sevice - We Will Become Silhouettes
*.txt - none
*.iso - none
*.dvd - Tudo Que É Sólido Pode Derreter
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