Cuando Llegará Mi Suerte

My head is buzzing, like after three days of insomnia and coffee on an empty stomach. Everything seems to be moving – days, weeks, life – but it feels like you're standing still, waiting for a bus that was cancelled a long time ago. Somewhere out there, beyond this fatigue, "happiness" is walking around, while here, there's only the habit of counting the minutes until that very "when luck strikes." Each verse is like a mental lap of honour around one's own helplessness. Sarcastic weariness from waiting, mixed with a hope that no longer shines but simply flickers like a dying lightbulb. And all of this to a rhythm that prevents you from face-planting into the pillow - as if the body still remembers how to live, even if the head gave up a long time ago.