Текст песни слепой эстет - клиническая смерть

Clinical death.
I died in the morning.
I died myself.
I did not touch your hands yet, but I believe in the best so far.
Although what I lie.
I do not believe in anything.
I scored everything, it seems, tonight.
I forgot about everything that made my candles to lighting, and they would fit them on a new to highlight your photos.

To see there with shadow itself.
To touch at least there.

Let's think that the universe is endless is,
And what's there, somewhere on billions of light second "our planet".
There we are happy.
There we are not only in dialogues from each other, but just have each other.
Okay.
Light - too much.
I only share six hours, and I'm already in a panic.

I understand.
I disappeared.
Not a poet, but a mediocre bar on the notebook charred.
You've got it up because?
I do not feel sorry for this tree recycled,
But it was us grown.

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

Saving curtains in your room and stay even without the light of the moon at night, but for now I will finish the verse in your "no hours of hours at midnight."
Abundance expressed only you can help me
After all, otherwise it will not work.
What is it all?
I lost a thread again.
This is all, probably, so that you, lying in bed, cried with my words.
No, I'm not a sadist some.
Just wanting to feel at least so.
In the picture of my tears - you fall on the keyboard or notebook,
And in yours, I hope I, on the bed or on the floor ...
Where are you warm up yourself trying to confuse warm air in the palm of your hand.
Huck up.

Please, just do not waste, I worry and worry,
Although you never pegs.
Do you care, do you hear?

Sharing once again from the impact of the alcohol in the head and fall
On the street, forgetting that around the cold winter.
Gift - bronchitis,
inflammation.
The disease is hard, but you are trying to touch the lips to death.
The chance will fall out, so hold on for him, and do not think about me.
I sip the month or another, and after rushing after you, probably.
Record all the verge of restrictions and moor to the abyss of infinite.
Oh, I wrote that you do not care ...

However, thinking about the best, I want to stop writing.
I want to fall into this death clinical and in a panic exit from there to look.
And why try, if everything is so close.
Four walls squeeze the edges of the peripherals, and still continue to read Exupii in the morning.
I really found you in the books of the book.
You were a flower.
After, probably, the metaphor, they say: "Don't fall in love with flowers."
I understood the meaning too late.
And fell, disassembled to the screws made a mistake.

Tomorrow I will not go to study again, because everything infuriates me and annoys.
Overwork played his germination to my head on yeast.
Without sleep for a long time.
And you are sent to sleep vile thoughts in the morning.
Because everything that has been thrown with you associated with a text document remains sealing there.