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I can already imagine the future of reggaeton: an extension in vapor style with me there, lounging on the couch and smoking a cinnamon stick with a bottle of crinton; ah, savoring it right in front of the elders, spitting in their eye all the rage of the little rebels.
It's truly sad to talk about such a decadent song, a child of its times; a pneumatic void that could pale the fires of the redeemer, the Arcade bonfire, Bepineto the pyromaniac son of Bruna's brown cow.
Sick of reggae, sick of the half-truths, and even sick of the burning sensation after eating spicy salami, Merlot, and a slap of fresh Asiago cheese bought at the market from that fool Toni the cheesemonger, all wrapped in two slices of rustic bread bought from Nane the roasted one.
I remember the kids in the disco who play with this song blasting, I remember my solitude, abandoned in the desire of my heart.
It's bitterness, but as the sun always comes back, happiness has once again found a home within me.
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