А - очень жаль, но вы опоздали - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I am a writer. In the evening, it’s very late, when no one interferes, brew tea, light a table lamp and put a stack of clean leaves in front of me. To write.

I am a fake writer. This is my game.

I sit down and boil my imagination. She reluctantly wakes up, begins to dress on herself that she will fall under the arm and pushes her sister imagination. They always sleep in the same bed.

So they begin to wander around the room, sleepy, stumbling about remorse, that they are lying here and there. The conscience itself sits pressing in the corner on its chest and flows the arrogant, never closing eyes. What is not sitting in the chest?

Love is sleeping so far. Tired. Let it rest. She has been tight recently.

And so far we take out our glasses and begin to look through my life through them that a heap is dumped in a box in the corner. Here is a very fresh piece. Knocking on the door. This door, which includes only love. What to knock? It's too late. Here she is, sleeping.

It’s scary to think - after all, she, having come here, can only die! Just die. And then some people will come in black and take away the corpse, simply wrapping it in a gray blanket. And after them, the wind will burst into the open door and blow off low fire. And all. And no one is a ban on the door, so it will hang out and creak on rusty hinges. And there will be no one to close it and stop this unbearable crying of an empty house ...

In the meantime, she is sleeping.

The old table, knocked out of unpainted boards, grunts under the weight of life. The yellow light cone from a simple lamp covered with a tin lampshade chooses this table and three of us from the twilight of the room. While laziness and fatigue are spinning somewhere in the darkens in the rain, we all look at a piece of a piece ...

I am a writer. I carefully tear off my skin shreds, thoroughly rub the blood, straighten it on the table, next to a heap I pour a handful of words that I found in my place and begin to lay them out. The shreds are small, and the words are not many, only the most faithful and each of its own place-it must be found and not to be mistaken. These words are all that we saw, everything that we could understand from the I lived.

I lived and want to leave. For memory. For memory! In order not to forget, to remember on the occasion when you need it. This can happen, I assure you.

I put shreds in a box of cedar wood. Shreds of my skin. This is part of me, part of my body. Take them in your hands carefully. No need to crumble and tear them. It hurts me.