скептический - chardonnay
текст песни

I don't answer calls, so it's time to get used to it
In this anthill the desire to disappear from sight
The retina is burned out, there is only an illegible symbol in the sky
Who wants to read you like a book
Tired of Wyoming craziness
Likenesses of people, audio drug advertisements
BDSM and angels dressed in underwear
Silent copies fought over a thrown word
A fat piece of meat in a calico dress
Such are the realities, hello Svankmajer
A fragment of a torn soul is braided in gauze
The city is full of fools and not Marvel heroes
Inside me is the suffering Agnia
And time with depra seeds gives wrinkles and depressions
Look, dreams are drowned by "carpathia"
In wine, the girl-apathy drowns them like kittens
I send her my heart with a load of "200"
I don’t want anything more, at least hang it on the wall
Like a punching bag, a convenient target
What will become food for mice after use?
And my fate seems to be tired of me
Everything is illusory, I joke like Ivan Makhalov
It's Vlad damn it, hello my city
Soaked in cheap alcohol and menthol

And we are still one-dimensional, one-sided
Time molds oncology to the tip of a needle
Doctors' words on a hospital certificate
There are no longer stones in my soul, but foam blocks
And it’s not easy to break them with any hammer
And until the end of centuries
A glass of Chardonnay becomes your friend
And you're nobody now

I twist my fate like Syd Barrett on acid
In complete chaos I prepared a cartridge for myself
The gods turned into methadone and dxm repulsed
Wave to your family and fly into orbit
Icy emptiness of hearts, cold climate
Below -30, we are dead animals
And little by little the epicenter of pain grew
Enclosing the fragility of the shells in a black triangle
For serious purposes or for fun
Cherishing everyday dregs like coins, a greedy leprechaun
I increase the noise level with my body temperature
To die in the city of drug addicts and stupid girls
Jelly underfoot made of autumn leaves and dirt
I'm trying to call love but there's no connection
The pixelated sky lights up with static
And this bastard autumn is like an absurd comedy
From the nineties, the behind-the-scenes laughter of sitcoms
This routine will soon lead to a coma
And your room, where the world is divided by zero
Porcelain dolls are silently busy playing
Time...Time puts on a slippery noose
Two...Puts your head on a hook
Three...And little by little my mind becomes cloudy
Here it is 7.00. Good morning