I'm tired of taking the same old route, of the same old job,
seeing the same old faces, the same sights, without you by my side.
My life is slowly getting filled up with those days,
dreary, gray and dull that one leaves out of one's biography.
Tired of going every night to the same clubs,
looking for you, in spite of knowing you're not there, that I won't find you.
Tired of regreting you absence each night,
straight to your altar to make you an offering.
Tomorrow will be too late, if you come looking for me.
Look in your mailbox, I left a message.
All is not lost, meet me,
you know the way well.
At that time—when almost everyone is unfaithful to their lovers—
I almost always find a good time to muerder myself.
And in-between deaths I look through the window,
with the futile hope of seeing Madrid buring down.
In the meantime perhaps you'd be searching for a lost schedule
or singing a song to lull a baby to sleep.
In the meantine perhaps you'd be looking through lost papers
the lyrics of a song I wrote you.
Tomorrow will be too late, if you come looking for me.
Look in your mailbox, I left a message.
All is not lost, meet me,
you know the way well.
Tomorrow will be too late if you come looking for me.
