Your Planet is Ours

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Nervous Machina

Beatport

Dave Steward - Hallucinations

VIDEO OFICIAL > youtu.be/iZWWg5GsIGY

LETRA / LYRICS

@artkarmo
@mellowdeck
no nosso harém

se tu tá aqui
eu tô também
se tu tá aqui
eu tô também
se tu me pede
a gente vem 
se tu me pede
a gente vem 
tu já sabe
que ninguém
tu já sabe
que ninguém 
vai parar
o nosso harém
não vai parar
o nosso harém

eu não quero voltar
no passado agora
não quero chorar
não é a hora
eu não quero parar
de viver o agora
eu quero dançar
essa é a hora

NÃO PARE A PARTY
CAN'T TOUCH MY BODY
TELL ME WHAT U WANT
I'LL GIVE YOU MORE THAN 1
NÃO PARE NOBODY
YOU SMELLS A RAIDER
(TAKE THE NIGHT U WANT
MAKE ME SURRENDER AND GONE) (2x)

não vá embora a noite
tell me what u want to say
o sol não demora a nascer
não vá embora a la noche (2x)

o que a gente deve
o sistema fez
a gente não deve
nada à ninguém
o que a gente deve
é com vocês!
eu não quero voltar
pro passado agora
não quero chorar
não é a hora
eu não quero parar
de viver o agora
eu quero dropar
essa é a hora

não vá embora a noite
se tu ta aqui
eu to tambem
se tu me pede
a gente vem
e tu já sabe
que ninguém
vai parar...
se tu ta aqui
eu to tambem
a gente vem
no nosso harém
tu já sabe
se tu me pede
eu to também
ninguém
nosso harém

1994 nasci de novo
ainda sinto o gosto
amargo do teu corpo
eu quero ver
o que ce vai fazer
tu ta me provocando
até me en-vol-ver
116 por cento
acima do permitido
correndo pra valer!
como chegamos aqui?
não quero mais sair!
*
se sua sede é me usar
por mim tu pode se afogar
nessa garrafa de Gin!

Harém (Prod. Mellow Deck)

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freaks? (art is derivative)

Thx For watching ^^ Available on all platforms!
OFFICIAL MUSIC VIDEO: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BNDv6MOuq6Q&ab_channel=Progheim

Listen it on Spotify: https://open.spotify.com/artist/2KpyNnrjHQld8nWssffwO0?si=g8WSVxeKRqy9tJEbmRIzsw

Beatport:https://www.beatport.com/release/escape-out/4000121

Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/progheim/

For other links: https://linktr.ee/progheim

Escape Out

I come back to the house of the long-ago past. And I am amazed to find its spaces vaster than I recalled—starting with the staircase, the part that was clearest in my memory. From our upper floor, I used to go there each morning and sit on the steps, in the feeble light that filtered through the entrance hall’s thick door. I always enjoyed the coolness at the hottest hour of the day. One time I fell there, and my father was frightened; he shouted and took me in his arms.

But I didn’t remember the steps as being so gradual and wide, of such massive gray stone, nor as sweeping this majestically up to the attic—though I retreated there quite often to read. You don’t go up to the attic like that in ordinary houses. Now I grasp that the house isn’t of this world—that it was laid out in another era, elsewhere. And I can almost see beings from that elsewhere grouped around a table. Under their eyes are surveys and maps, immense horizons of long limestone hills. They look at them, absorbed in thought. One of them puts his finger on a survey map, right where two little children, a boy and a girl, are quarreling over an object. You can barely pick it out on this old photograph: is it a small animal they’re holding in their arms? A small life with jerky movements and mewling cries, part of the body of one or the other, or of both? Or was it an entire swath of the enormous starry sky? That morning, the tide of the summer day, though rising, hadn’t yet effaced it. I don’t know what they held there, which they let get away; but now I watch them climb back up the staircase, hand in hand.

Nor have I forgotten that this attic—a low construction of heavy timber, hot and odorous, with a floor of badly joined planks—had served for many years as the final resting place of trunks, left open because they overflowed with old magazines and books. Many of them lay about in messy piles, with numerous volumes of I Know Everything, the “Illustrated World Encyclopedia.” The first page showed a little man dressed in black, his head the terrestrial globe. With a finger—how appalling!—he touches his forehead, his eyes lost in his dream. Kneeling before a trunk, I spend hours reading I Know Everything. I contemplate from afar, through sooty lithographs, the shores of Polynesia, with their beautiful, half-naked beings; or dreadful nocturnal rooms, scarcely illumined by oil lamps, where heads throng in a circle of light—though who they are I will never know.