слепой эстет - клиническая смерть
текст песни

Clinical death.
I died in the morning.
I have died.
I have not touched your hands yet, but I still believe in the best.
Although, what am I lying.
I have nothing to believe in.
I scored everything, it seems, tonight.
I forgot about everything that stewed my candles to lighting, and set them in a new one to light your photos.

To see a shadow of yourself there.
To touch at least there.

Let's think that the universe is endless,
And what, somewhere for billions of lights, the second "our planet".
There we are nearby are happy.
There we are not only in dialogs of each other, but simply has each other.
OK.
Light - too much.
Only six hourly ones are divided, and I'm already in a panic.

I am drooping.
I was gone.
Not a poet, but a mediocre stroke on a charred notebook.
Did you set fire to?
I'm not sorry for this processed tree,
But it was grown by us.

Now everything that was once "life" for us has been enslaved.
Paints of happiness only with contrast, but they are washed off with tears.
What a pity that we are so emotional on the one hand,
But so insensitive with the other.
What a pity that "otherwise" is not given to the concept of our minds.
No, not stupid like.
Just everything outside the focus of vision.
Tablets, alcohol - our destiny, which, according to the brain right, will help to cope with this pseudo -conservation.

Pushing the curtains in his room and staying even without the light of the moon at night, but for now I’ll subscribe to the verse in my "without a couple of hours of hours."
The abundance of the expressed only you can help me,
After all, otherwise it will not work.
And why is it all?
I lost the thread again.
This is probably all in order for you, lying in bed, crying in my words.
No, I'm not some kind of sadist.
I just want to feel each other at least like that.
In my tenders - you fall on the keyboard or notebook,
And in yours, I hope I, on the bed or on the floor ...
Where you try to warm yourself there, blowing warm air in the palm of your hand.
Wrapped a sheet.

Please, just not a sheet, I am worried and worried,
At least it never signs you.
You do not give a damn, do you hear?

You will shake once again from the blow of alcohol in the head and fall
On the street, forgetting that there is a cold winter around.
Gift - bronchitis,
inflammation.
The disease is severe, but you strive for death to touch your lips.
The chance will fall out, so hold on to him, but do not think about me.
I will endure a month or two, and after that I will rine after you, I guess.
I will cross all the facets of the restriction and moor on the abyss of endless.
Oh, I wrote that you don't give a damn ...

However, thinking about the best, I want to stop writing.
I would like to fall into this death clinical and in a panic to look out from there.
Why try, if everything is so close.
Four walls squeeze the edges of the peripheral, but still continue to read eccuupery in the morning.
I really found you in the lines of the book.
You were a flower.
After, probably, a metaphor, they say: "Do not fall in love with flowers."
I understood the meaning too late.
And he fell, dismantling the error made on the screws.

Tomorrow I will not go to study again, because everything infuriates and annoying me.
Overwork played its germination in my head on yeast.
Without sleeping for a long time.
And they send me vile thoughts in the morning.
Because everything that was thrown with you related to the text document remained sealled there.