I'm nothing. I'll always be nothing. I can't even wish to be something. Aside from that, I've got all the world's dreams inside me...

I come from around Moss.
I'm going this week to Lisbon.
I'm not bringing anything and won't find a thing.
Except for my dreams...
I feel the exhaustion I anticipate from what I won't find.
And my yearning comes not from the past or the future.
I was, like the grasses, and never uprooted...

On the road to Cascais,
near midnight,
at the wheel in the moonlight.
On the road to Cascais,
tiered of my own fantasies,
On the road to Cascais, 
each moment closer too...
On the road to Cascais,
each moment farther away 
from my-selves...