I'm lying in my bed, holding my girlfriend.
The faint whispers of the main melody from Brazil
being played by Django Reinhardt on the record player.
The nights are cold here, they've always been cold.
Warm is just a theory now, a vague concept.
The snow covers the grass like a blanket
and the ice covers the road like hot water clinging to your skin,
in the shower I take to feel alive again.
But...I miss Brazil.
I wish this record player can take me there.
But, I would end up with a cold heart
because this album is called,
Jazz in Paris.
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