They ask me how I feel And if my love is real And how I know I'll make it through. And they, they look at me and frown, They'd like to drive me from this town, They don't want me around 'Cause I believe in you.
They show me to the door, They say don't come back no more 'Cause I don't be like they'd like me to, And I walk out on my own A thousand miles from home But I don't feel alone 'Cause I believe in you.
I believe in you even through the tears and the laughter, I believe in you even though we be apart. I believe in you even on the morning after. Oh, when the dawn is nearing Oh, when the night is disappearing Oh, this feeling is still here in my heart.
Don't let me drift too far, Keep me where you are Where I will always be renewed. And that which you've given me today Is worth more than I could pay And no matter what they say I believe in you.
I believe in you when winter turn to summer, I believe in you when white turn to black, I believe in you even though I be outnumbered. Oh, though the earth may shake me Oh, though my friends forsake me Oh, even that couldn't make me go back.
Don't let me change my heart, Keep me set apart From all the plans they do pursue. And I, I don't mind the pain Don't mind the driving rain I know I will sustain 'Cause I believe in you.
Original de Bob Dylan, lançado em 1979 no álbum Slow Train Coming (Special Rider Music).
Descobri agora, porque a Cat Power faz uma cover em Jukebox (Matador, 2008) que é tão boa, tão boa, que parece um original.
Mais um vídeo descomunal dos Justice. É uma coisa inacreditavelmente bem feita, até chega a incomodar. Mas suspeito de que forma vai ser isto interpretado... Vejam o Néon do Y no Público de hoje, escrito por Vítor Belanciano.
All of the streets in the lower 48 United States: an image of 26 million individual road segments. No other features (such as outlines or geographic features) have been added to this image, however they emerge as roads avoid mountains, and sparse areas convey low population. All Streets de Ben Fry.
-Você encontra-se (observe-me bem) por felicidade sua e infelicidade minha defronte do maior espeleólogo da depressão: oito mil metros de profundidade oceânica da tristeza, negrume de águas galatinosas sem vida salvo um ou outro repugnante monstro sublunar de antenas, e tudo isto sem batiscafo, sem escafandro, sem oxigénio, o que significa, obviamente, que agonizo.