Текст песни Сны Моего Неба - История Одного Трипа

I sit and listen in despair .. the sound of wheels and mouse clicks. Mice? It is diminutively affectionate.
But judging by the sounds, my finger is clearly stingy with affection. Otherwise, why would he yell like an old dilapidated cart?
I sit and scroll through the endless frame of my frightened thoughts. They are crowded with meaningless symbols to pinch or transform each other. Sometimes it seems to me that this is the Babel crowding. Hundreds of different languages ​​... thousands of words from nowhere and nowhere that cannot understand each other in the general ambition, in the chaos of speech unconsciousness.
I throw the net into this many-sided stream, and emerge with a cry. To remain yourself and preserve the structure of consciousness ... which billions of small tenacious hands are trying to pull apart.
"Give us a particle of yourself! Pinch your I! Pinch your I .. and Mnee ... because we love you!"
Invisible fingers shout to me ... the main thing is not to melt and not lose them. Clearly remember the body ... in a red general chair with a darkened back, on which time froze .. and the floor.
I dive deeper and it seems to me that I have come to my senses. Transformed from broken light into meat and bones, frozen in an absurd idol position. And only my eyes ... run here and there here ... on small plasticine legs, allowing me to examine myself and evaluate the changes that have taken place.

From the height of my right shoulder, I see only skin-covered bones sticking out in lonely stumps. Standing on the left hand - my eye sees perfect muscles! Sewn in coarse thread ... Wow, the brainchild of Frankenstein. Mirage? Optical illusion if you want .. but no one can cancel, cancel what is already happening .. runs away and falls in stained glass windows with heavy palms on a fragile glass face. And I feel like cheeks run up a thousand small cracks.
Of course I have something to say, but that’s exactly what I’ll leave to myself .. because a person loses so much when he tries to prove to others that he is, that he was and will be further.

"Say .. open ..."

But I'm not going to prove anything, because I flow like a stream. Running away in a fast flow from where they ask too many questions about the transparency of my blood and the density of my karma.
Catch the stream without soaking your hands and you will have a bonus, my catchers ... whose breath I guess from the shadows behind me.
It seems the seconds have become sharper ...
I do not believe you and my memories. They look too much like monuments ... their feet are drowned in stones tied for years ... and look at only one point. The epicenter of the lowered consciousness .. and the world. Birds sit on them, children throw snowballs. Tourists take pictures with my memory as a cousin. Homeless clumps of human hopelessness are sleeping on them ... and a tired janitor sighs when he sees a new drawing ... on a stone body, like an autograph with street paint.

- Good afternoon, monsieur. And tell those how to get to the city center. I really need a monument to Marcus.
- ABOUT! Young man .. nowadays nobody is interested in architecture. Of course, of course .. I will accompany you. Come after me ..
I laugh and jump into the wall. Features of the monitor are densely frozen. Sailing for ages a gigantic phantom through ancient gypsum and into the ventilation shaft.
Empire of fussy insects and small .. microscopic life! Well .. it seems they are surprised and scared ...
- Hey hello Sam! Long time no see!
- How I have not seen you Jam
- Not! Not! Jam .. what is it? This guy, behind you, has a knife in his hands .. Jam! No! Jay!
- God .. I don’t understand what happened to this damn world ..

When I tumble out onto the street, I dance like the tale of air ... street winds feel prey and rush at me like a sale ... trying to chop off and chop off. They say "thank you sir" to me, sing and curl with thin tentacles ...
"Street sale of dancing air. Fly in. Fly in. Street sale of sunny air! Dancing air of divorce ... we fly! Yes friends .. we fly.
Sir do you want to have dancing tale air? To your bowler fit .. not otherwise. Very for