My head is spinning because the North Pole
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There is a blizzard in my pocket, despite our age
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As if I'm stretching my hand, but only to the sky like gospel
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And the roof is my faith, it has no place in the hospice
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Fatum or just a coincidence?
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What they call luck in fact for me is script transitions
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Where the Author, hearing the hero, decided to change the chapters, but the roles suddenly
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Maybe that's how it was or that was the plot of the story
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The concept is shrouded in mystery
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Do not reveal plot details
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On the timer, the release of the entire book
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Climax requires sacrifice
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Far from everything is inevitable and it will not be clear according to plan
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Because I'm just a writer, but songs
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He is the writer of the novel
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And no matter how difficult
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I'm sure Heaven will definitely help us
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After all, in the cry of the character
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Creator's tears are hidden
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Make it sound impossible
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Don't care what they think later
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But I pray and believe
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As a result, become justified
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My head is spinning because the North Pole
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There is a blizzard in my pocket, despite our age
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As if I'm stretching my hand, but only to the sky like gospel
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And the roof is my faith, it has no place in the hospice
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If I am registered, then I have flaws with a vengeance
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I'm either drunk here, or I'm napping on the couch
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Oblomov will not be similar in comparison
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After all, I am the lord of the bummers
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At least now enjoy my music while sitting with popcorn
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For the track will come to an end and I will again be mired in a quagmire
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From a series of unforgotten pens where the brain is like a vat of thoughts
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I hang out, then at home for days, then sober and in the hall, and again blue
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Of course, it's wrong, I know, but I want to believe that it's all part of the style
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And no matter how difficult it is, I'm sure Heaven will definitely help
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After all, the writer himself lives the story of the hero
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Make it sound impossible
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Don't care what they think later
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But I pray and believe
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That she'll come out fascinating
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My head is spinning because the North Pole
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There is a blizzard in my pocket, despite our age
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As if I'm stretching my hand, but only to the sky like gospel
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And the roof is my faith, it has no place in the hospice |