Oscillations, oscillations
Electronic evocations of sound's reality
Spinning, magnetic fluctuations
Waves of wave configurations
That dance between the poles of sound
And bind my world to soul

I walk the streets of moment
Head down to the ground
Cars are stars remotely far
My only world is sound
Passersby are worlds that fly
Far from the dance of time
Time whirls round from pole to pole
And swirls within the sound

We are the robots
We are the robots
We are the robots
We are the robots

Space, taking a space walk
Space, taking a space...

Wanna be the ruler of the galaxy
Wanna be the king of the universe
Let's meet and have a baby now!
Wanna be the captain of the Enterprise
Wanna be the king of the Zulus
Let's meet and have a baby now!
O astronauta ao menos
Viu que a Terra é toda azul, amor
Isso é bom saber
Porque é bom morar no azul, amor
Mas você, sei lá
Você é uma mulher, sim
Você é linda porque é

A secret question hovers over us, a sense of disappointment, a broken promise we were given as children. I am referring not to the standard false promises that children are always given (about how the world is fair, or how those who work hard shall be rewarded), but to a particular generational promise—given to those who were children in the fifties, sixties, seventies, or eighties—one that was never quite articulated as a promise but rather as a set of assumptions about what our adult world was supposed to be like. And since it was never quite promised, now that it has failed to come true, we’re left confused: indignant, but at the same time, embarrassed at our own indignation, ashamed we were ever so silly to believe our elders to begin with. Where, in short, are the flying cars?

Meet George Jetson
His boy, Elroy
Daughter Judy
Jane, his wife

Onde quer que você esteja
Em Marte ou Eldorado
Abra a janela e veja
O pulsar quase mudo
E o oco escuro esquece

(Onde quer que você esteja
Em Marte ou Eldorado
Abra a janela e veja
O pulsar quase mudo
Abraço de anos-luz
Que nenhum sol aquece
E o oco escuro esquece)