Writers block

A criatividade se foi. Morto o iluminismo, morta a inspiração. Algo que traduza bem o momento, a febre, a saúde. Tudo revirado:

I'm feeling rough
I'm feeling raw
I'm in the prime of my life
Let's make some music make some money find some models for wives i'll move to Paris, shoot some heroin and fuck with the stars.
You man the island and the cocaine and the elegant cars
This is our decision to live fast and die young
We've got the vision, now let's have some fun
Yeah it's overwhelming, but what else can we do?
Get jobs in offices and wake up for the morning commute?
Forget about our mothers and our friends
We were fated to pretend
I'll miss the playgrounds and the animals and digging up worms
I'll miss the comfort of my mother and the weight of the world
I'll miss my sister, miss my father, miss my dog and my homeYeah
I'll miss the boredom and the freedom and the time spent alone.
But there is really nothing, nothing we can doLove must be forgotten, life can always start up anew
The models will have children, we'll get a divorce
We'll find some more models, everything must run its course
We'll choke on our vomit and that will be the endWe were fated to pretend

Yeah yeah yeah