Meteorites, by Yann Tiersen.


So here we are under London's glass and granite arms as they reach for the half moon, 
me a blur of boldness and booze and the rusty-haired polka-dot breeze of you 
stands stuck to the street in cool shoes. 
What could possibly go wrong? What could possibly go right? 
We could list all the good things and list all the bad things, 
but if we're all just vibration what difference does it make? 
My heart could be a stone, it's a sponge, it's a balloon, 
it's a lonely rock with a fiery tail, falling in your atmosphere, 
burning up and breaking down. 
So let our atoms melt together, let our nuclei converge. 
I want you now, and your conscience can be clear. 
My yesterday is dead, the present's an illusion, 
and tomorrow's just a nightmare away. 
This is our story, our movie. 
This is our rom-com, and it ends like this.

Without looking up, the girl cautiously takes the boy's hand. 

She steers herself then meets his gaze. 
The boy smiles. The girl surrenders. 
They kiss.

We pull away to reveal more lovers. 

In a long winter coat, a woman straddles a man on a wooden bench. 
Behind a coin-operated lavatory, two boys passionately embrace. 
Vague silhouttes sigh behind the steamed windows of a parked car. 
Two figures fumble in a phone-box. 
There's a couple in every doorway and around every corner.
Snow begins to fall. 

We drift up into the sky and look down on the boy and the girl 
as they become tiny specks in a London street. 
We pull away further and further until London's gone, 
England's gone, Europe's gone. 
Now we're in space, watching the Earth as the sun rises behind it. 
Satellites orbit by. 
A billion stars surround us. 
We flow over the moon. 
Then we cut to black, 
and the credits roll.

I want you now, and now is all we can know.

I want you now, and now is all we can know.
I want you now, and now is all we can know.
I want you now, and now is all we can know.

Imagine we wake up tomorrow and nothing's happened. 

Think of what we'll never know. 
One night of love in a month full of doubt. 
Take my hand. Take my tongue. Let's run. 
Tonight can be a detour, a respite. 
I'm your busman's holiday, 
your much deserved night off. 
I'm your sensual sejourn. 
My heart could be a stone, my heart could be a sponge. 
This is the end: ten years in the making, a decade of design. 
This kiss is Hello. This kiss is Goodbye.

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