I thought I had written out a long time ago
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And every time, trying to fuck, I spend the night at the stations
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T-shirt "Youth", vances, and I'm stylish, fucked up,
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But is there any point, since inside I'm rotting and
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Not left to crawl out from the bottom
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A corral of street postmodernity and cattle?
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I once said that I can see fate in the eyes
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Now I'm not sure that I can do anything myself
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And one hundred minutes per second - the speed of the liner, all rushing down
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And in a languid bar a lonely vocalist will perform Spleen
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And everything I'm vulnerable to will be told in one song
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In one theater, in one act
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And he'll say the plane broke down and my flight won't take off (Won't take off)
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And he will say, there's nothing more I can save here (Don't save)
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Vultures fly on the scent
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And I'm still escorting the liners to the west
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While palm touching the clouds
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We wanted to live brightly and with passion
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On crashed planes, we turn the starter and forward
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Into the sky from beer bottles, burnt cigarette butts
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Developing a speed of about a hundred minutes per second
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We wanted to live brightly and with passion
|
On crashed planes, we turn the starter and forward
|
Into the sky from beer bottles, burnt cigarette butts
|
Developing a speed of about a hundred minutes per second
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Years go by, and as if for the first time September burns
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And don't care about the sky, we can at least conquer ourselves here
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And what I do, I do not like, of course,
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But in this atmosphere everything is lost - self-control
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And a hundred minutes per second. |
Birds are coming together from the metal
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To collide with a double star and be reborn again
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And we dreamed of living easily and effortlessly,
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But the head is covered by a rain of burning bolts and nuts
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The collapse of the flight of our thoughts can be seen someone jinxed
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Why did our flight of fantasies crash in the same way
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And seeing a rainbow became so unusual
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From rainy streets it smears like under a glitch
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And I crossed out a couple of verses a year ago
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I'm already different, not the same anymore, and time has run out, moreover (Besides)
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I'll fly away, putting only a bottle in a bag
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Developing the speed of one hundred minutes per second
|
We wanted to live brightly and with passion
|
On crashed planes, we turn the starter and forward
|
Into the sky from beer bottles, burnt cigarette butts
|
Developing a speed of about a hundred minutes per second
|
We wanted to live brightly and with passion
|
On crashed planes, we turn the starter and forward
|
Into the sky from beer bottles, burnt cigarette butts
|
Developing a speed of about a hundred minutes per second |