não é novidade que Suzanne Vega é uma contadora de histórias nata, com olho para pequenos detalhes.
sempre adorei esta letra. o contexto, a situação, a fotografia. musicalmente, não é das minhas preferidas. uma candidata a saltar de faixa. se pudesse, dar-lhe-ia outra roupagem completamente diferente.
no entanto, tendo passado um fim de semana de sonhos nocturnos (não pesadelos) com muitas -muitas mesmo- visitas inesperadas, seguidos de enxaqueca diurna, era impossível não a recordar:
The ceiling had a painting on it / In our room in France
So we were living underneath / Some angels in a dance
My husband was not feeling well / And so we went to bed
He woke up complaining / Of an aching in his head
He said a hundred people / Had come through our room that night
That one by one the old and young / Asked if he was all right
One by one the old and young / Lined up to touch his hand
He spent the night explaining / They had come to the wrong man
The concierge was less than helpful / When we asked her the next day
With coffee and a magazine / We went to the desk to pay
“What happened in that room?” he asked / “A death or something strange?”
She smiled at him politely / And returned to him his change
Well, what I’d like to know / And this will be a mystery
Is with all the people in that room / Why none appeared to me?
When we sleep so close together that / Our hair becomes entwined
I must have missed that moment / In the gateway to his mind
(Nine Objects of Desire, 1996)
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