In my life, there are so many anger, with you in the pits stepped up with old friends, I didn't listen to this intense to the wovers, explaining that all this was just a pen. And we flew, hiding in the parlor beds in the rooms where the air is compressed to the most heavens, where everything you do is all waste time, poor squirrel in the wheel just does not have time to get off them. And you got confused in your life, the wanderer, confused in himself, rotten on a third: you are engaged in the seventh round one and the same wound with which I would like to die, but it hurts me, I swallow a pill one for one, but nothing helps if Suddenly get to hell, then I will return to you, I barely dealt with rotten legs. the world where only the dust remains from you, the bottomless soul in the perimeter of the gas chamber, as the bonding wand right in their hands, but you did not have time to say the spell, thoughts - my frantic radiance, pulling the heavenly blanket for herself, now do not mean If the starry sky is my family, and you are not with them. And we fall again in the pit, if I did not give you a hand, it means that you took. I take a blow to myself, shelting the shaky banner until she struck the rotten arrow, and I would be ready to ride at the station, who is there? But God pokes my finger. Empty. He says: "I'm sorry, you are late" quota. He says: "Only pain remained." Feel. And we tolerate, the charter to flow, moan. Substituting the cheek I do not become an outcast. I open this door with a soul with a junk, I give up without a fight.
