А - очень жаль, но вы опоздали
текст песни

I am a writer. In the evening, very late, when no one is bothering you, I make tea, light the table lamp and put a stack of blank sheets of paper in front of me. To write.

I'm not a real writer. This is my kind of game.

I sit down and wake up my Fantasy. She reluctantly wakes up, begins to put on whatever she can get her hands on and pushes her sister Imagination aside. They always sleep in the same bed.

So they begin to wander around the room, still sleepy, stumbling over the remorse of conscience that is lying here and there. Conscience itself sits huddled in the corner on its chest and stares at its drowsy, never-closing eyes. What doesn't fit in her chest?

Love is still sleeping. Tired. Let him rest. She's been having a hard time lately.

In the meantime, we take out our pieces of glass and begin to look through them at my life, which is piled up in a box in the corner. Here's a very fresh piece. They knock on the door. This door through which only love enters. Why knock? It's too late. There she is, sleeping.

It’s scary to think - after all, when she enters here, she can only die! Just die. And then some people in black will come and take away the corpse, simply wrapping it in a gray blanket. And after them the wind will rush through the open door and blow out the weak fire. That's all. But no one will stop the door, it will continue to dangle and creak on its rusty hinges. And there will be no one to close it and stop this unbearable cry of an empty house...

In the meantime, she's sleeping.

An old table made from unpainted boards groans under the weight of life. A cone of yellow light from a simple lamp covered with a tin lampshade picks out this table and the three of us from the twilight of the room. While Laziness and Fatigue are wandering somewhere in the dark in the rain, we are all looking at piece by piece...

I am a writer. I carefully tear off the pieces of skin, carefully wipe off the blood, spread them out on the table, scatter a handful of words next to them in a pile that I found in my possession and begin to arrange them. The scraps are small, and there are not many words, only the most faithful ones and each has its place - you need to find it and not make mistakes. These words are all that we saw, all that we could understand from what I lived.

I have lived and want to leave. For memory. For memory! In order not to forget, remember when necessary. This can happen, I assure you.

I put the scraps in a cedar wood box. Pieces of my skin. This is part of me, part of my body. Handle them carefully. No need to crumple them or tear them. It hurts me.