My dreams are just like pages ripped from a book in which I have to develop the story.
Ontem, sonhei mas depois acho que acordei e passei a trabalhar a história na minha mente. De manhã havia apenas uma leve lembrança. Coisa de escritor frustrado.
Surviving the days, merely existing. I've spent my whole life trying to find out who I am and now I question myself: what have I done to my life? Because it doesn't make sense to me.