Lyrics to Y
(Part I)
From love to hatred there's one step. Pristine kindness and self-satisfaction. We still dance on a wall with one step foreward and one step backward.
(Part II)
Night and day. We walk along both sides io this wall using one of them sometimes too often that leads to the unability to recognize individuals who showsed empathy yesterday. And using the other side somestimes too often that leads to the unability to see individuals who'd be ecstatic tomorrow. So, where's the good side while as sarcastic and selfish as we are it is often impossible to find a seat?
A Single false-step is enough to shift anything from black to white. Nomads or residents. Lights, or shadows, spoiled chldren or brothers of misery... In spite of this line that goes through us, none of these sides are neither good nor evil. But if you fall, this wall becomes the Babel tower; a weeak and fragile building built by people who speak the same language but who are unable to understand each other.
(Part III)
"Love each other" or "be with us or against us" are good for those who need their daily mea culpa dose. I'm not here to love or hate anyone. I won't neither deal with it, nor suceed at it. And so it is. So you can keep on dancing, walking on a wall or building a tower. Then if you fall, there's always a way to restart. But if you decide to leave, no one will be there to dissuade you.
(Part IV)
Our nice promises held by a false humility simply, results in an organized chaos as if it was dictating us what to do, who to love or who to stone. What is this will to pretend to be different when everything around us looks like stories we've learnt by heart or when this difference is so codified and marked? Between loyal supporters and disciples , we can't distinguish the original from the copy - no need to think anymore when you#re sure to be right because credibility is acquired in folklore as if we all have to earn something. I dreamed all night long on the things we earn from trying to get our skin saved through these lines and in these streets but the end is harsh when there's no more anger but self-importance.When there's no more debate but your self-satisfaction, aggressions for communication or answers as questions.
(Part V)
We, as benefactors, good thinkers and so-called out-of-norm, who play the tough guy, angry and cynical. Don't we lose anything on the way under the solid roofs of wide avenues? There is the unconcerned and frivolous emptiness everywhere, this "with-us-or-against-us" that impose them enough to provoke inner conflicts. And we stand here to watch everything collapse, mouth shut without ever admitting any responsibility.
(Part VII)
So what do we get when we clean our sweat to fast? What do we get from our values when we prefer theory? And above all, what's the price for it? Like a passionated rampart to be defended with body and soul which only protect the surface, we could keep on persuade ourselves to have the vest ideas in the world but as long as we'll live ours, our passions will look a militia with no uniform, a solid barricade. It will take the control n us peacefully with the necessary vice to become the best of the police.
(Part VIII)
Organized chaos sometimes does happen but some winters spent to dishibernate nevertheless bring back ideas and promises. There will be no back to the normal, nor hibernation but above all a good lesson since here like everywhere else, walls have ears, but they above all have a word. Souvenirs and promises. Like a mark supplying imaginary, like an ensemble of improvised homes so as to never regret anything.
Headphones on. I do think about it often while walking in those streets where all my life occurs with rancours quickly forgotten with some ordinary joys... Home quickly comforts grieves, forgives doubts, feeds the will to make it unique.
(Party IX)
Above its two hills, above its two rivers, sidewalk full of advertisements, windows and bars there's the promise of an underground life, still presents to imagine the rest of the story. Premises and workshops, talkative walls, bucket full of glue and benches like school playground. Lost hours of walk spent to explore nooks of streets that we know by heart.
(Part X)
Ephemeral spontaneity, relieving smell and noises we no longer listen, the same neighbors still speak a language I do know but don't understand, reflection of flowing water under the bridges. There's simply the desire not to let everything turn into a shop window.
It's up to us to decide to be the problem or the solution. With its old pretentious and bourgeois air, there's one step from love to hatred and I distrust it as much as I love it.
Y Video:
From love to hatred there's one step. Pristine kindness and self-satisfaction. We still dance on a wall with one step foreward and one step backward.
(Part II)
Night and day. We walk along both sides io this wall using one of them sometimes too often that leads to the unability to recognize individuals who showsed empathy yesterday. And using the other side somestimes too often that leads to the unability to see individuals who'd be ecstatic tomorrow. So, where's the good side while as sarcastic and selfish as we are it is often impossible to find a seat?
A Single false-step is enough to shift anything from black to white. Nomads or residents. Lights, or shadows, spoiled chldren or brothers of misery... In spite of this line that goes through us, none of these sides are neither good nor evil. But if you fall, this wall becomes the Babel tower; a weeak and fragile building built by people who speak the same language but who are unable to understand each other.
(Part III)
"Love each other" or "be with us or against us" are good for those who need their daily mea culpa dose. I'm not here to love or hate anyone. I won't neither deal with it, nor suceed at it. And so it is. So you can keep on dancing, walking on a wall or building a tower. Then if you fall, there's always a way to restart. But if you decide to leave, no one will be there to dissuade you.
(Part IV)
Our nice promises held by a false humility simply, results in an organized chaos as if it was dictating us what to do, who to love or who to stone. What is this will to pretend to be different when everything around us looks like stories we've learnt by heart or when this difference is so codified and marked? Between loyal supporters and disciples , we can't distinguish the original from the copy - no need to think anymore when you#re sure to be right because credibility is acquired in folklore as if we all have to earn something. I dreamed all night long on the things we earn from trying to get our skin saved through these lines and in these streets but the end is harsh when there's no more anger but self-importance.When there's no more debate but your self-satisfaction, aggressions for communication or answers as questions.
(Part V)
We, as benefactors, good thinkers and so-called out-of-norm, who play the tough guy, angry and cynical. Don't we lose anything on the way under the solid roofs of wide avenues? There is the unconcerned and frivolous emptiness everywhere, this "with-us-or-against-us" that impose them enough to provoke inner conflicts. And we stand here to watch everything collapse, mouth shut without ever admitting any responsibility.
(Part VII)
So what do we get when we clean our sweat to fast? What do we get from our values when we prefer theory? And above all, what's the price for it? Like a passionated rampart to be defended with body and soul which only protect the surface, we could keep on persuade ourselves to have the vest ideas in the world but as long as we'll live ours, our passions will look a militia with no uniform, a solid barricade. It will take the control n us peacefully with the necessary vice to become the best of the police.
(Part VIII)
Organized chaos sometimes does happen but some winters spent to dishibernate nevertheless bring back ideas and promises. There will be no back to the normal, nor hibernation but above all a good lesson since here like everywhere else, walls have ears, but they above all have a word. Souvenirs and promises. Like a mark supplying imaginary, like an ensemble of improvised homes so as to never regret anything.
Headphones on. I do think about it often while walking in those streets where all my life occurs with rancours quickly forgotten with some ordinary joys... Home quickly comforts grieves, forgives doubts, feeds the will to make it unique.
(Party IX)
Above its two hills, above its two rivers, sidewalk full of advertisements, windows and bars there's the promise of an underground life, still presents to imagine the rest of the story. Premises and workshops, talkative walls, bucket full of glue and benches like school playground. Lost hours of walk spent to explore nooks of streets that we know by heart.
(Part X)
Ephemeral spontaneity, relieving smell and noises we no longer listen, the same neighbors still speak a language I do know but don't understand, reflection of flowing water under the bridges. There's simply the desire not to let everything turn into a shop window.
It's up to us to decide to be the problem or the solution. With its old pretentious and bourgeois air, there's one step from love to hatred and I distrust it as much as I love it.
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