Аля Кудряшева - Как всегда бывает - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

As always, when everything is close, on the ground that has the shape of a disk, as always, almost at the verge of risk, I ask you to sign a contract so that you let me go into these circles, where your eyes are silent, let me go, let me go to mine Bail, I will return when the anthrax sounds.

Drop it at this time funny, where I wander everything through the streets, cold, from random lights and Baldeus people, from random drops a backpack wet. The sum of the words invented over October, to me, to me, all the others, at least because I remember how she burned with his claws my views of the chest lump.

In this house, where I was recently, it was necessary to take everything for granted, on every holiday - especially on a calendar, not go to the doctor, light a candle. All your insults, both pain, and conscience to bring to the organ fifthness, bow to transparent weightlessness, like a dashing head - an executioner.

In this fragile city, it seems to me to be alarming, even in a joke, it seems to me, you can only wander, and inadvertently dive into a richest Kuter. Start a letter with Meine Liebe Frau, putting on a coat is never mourning, and someone belong to right, even in general, anyway to someone. Every evening to stroke laces and bows, and on Fridays go to Biergarten, take half a liter - than we, they say, are not Vaganti, wait for anyone who has not yet come. Fold slightly - but not to ugliness, but rather to external nobility, so that everyone knows that everything is simple and almost hopelessly good.

It is impossible there, as here, in order to not count, no snowflakes that melt on the palms, no leaflets that the rain flies in the fall, nor dead cells - one hundred per verse. Every day spent in fire, in mud, whether light years, hopeless winters, should be put away and in the freezer, attributing the number and shelf life.

This city, affectionate, like a pillow, without through windows, without stuffy cellars, he is ready to accept a stranger, warm his cholence with his fire. But she came to him, a certain, smoked, dirty, inanimate, trams and metro sucked this soul at a peak and care during the day. This city breathed over an orphan body and sighed at him so that the soul flew, and it, like a glass, forth, the city burst into tears, tinkled into the bells. And in an orphan body, hot, cloth, there was a shower of these in a general car with a trailer, because here, if it came out as a whole, you are unlikely to reach the corner.

The standard panorama is golden, outside the window the eternal inscription "Pragma", by my twenty I add to the right what is rightfully belonging to them. In our sleeping area, any figure, appearing, becomes part of the cycle, like a motor, like a buzz of a motorcycle, like a soul that does not lie, but for some reason cries, stuck, as a fragment of linden, to an endless gray monolith, to the urban wet negligence.

In order to give you my soul, I buy a new one on E-Bay, maybe this one will be more burning than mine, stained already.