The Anatomy of Dust

Fog is climbing up the Rue Augusta. A ghost of silver in the morning air. I wear my boredom like a velvet arm. A king of nothing on a wooden chair. The trolley tracks are lines of cold decision That lead to houses where I'll never sleep. My soul is just a window with a vision Of secrets that the River Tagus keeps. Oh, Let the vinyl spin the dust of hours. I'm a stranger in my own skin tonight. Between the Fado and the city towers, I lose the battle just to win the light. Isolation, sweet and Hollow, the only shadow that I Choose to follow. The cello weeps a salt-stained melody. The ghost of Pessoa is breathing down my neck. A diary of dreams, a vast anatomy Of every heart that's ever been a wreck. I am the distance between what I feel And what the ink can manage to betray. The clicking clock is turning like a wheel, Crushing the remnants of a wasted day. I've created in myself Various personalities. I'm the living stage where many actors pass. Oh, let the vinyl spin the dust of Hours. I'm a stranger in my own skin tonight. Between the Fado and the city towers, I lose the battle just to win the light. Isolation, sweet and Hollow, the only shadow that I Choose to follow. Soldati In a minor key. The crackle of the wood, the salt of the Sea. I was never here. I was never here. I was never here. I was never here.