Аля Кудряшева - Вчера был снег, сегодня снег... - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Yesterday there was snow, today it is snow - I'm going to see everyone, I write neutrally about the weather. Once a train in a couple of days, then it is worth it to sit even and take stock of the year.

They read everything, up to Hugo, yes.

They read everything - to nonsense, but by the way, thick works spoiled a lot of blood. Mann did not pass the palms, Vishnevsky burdened his pocket, well, Thomas Janusz harsh, but Yanush had a novel.

I wrote little - but we take into account when we do not write - we grow up by half a page per day, not lower. But we will write - the void, judge for yourself, gentlemen, - you will sell pieces of forty old books - then six months of non -metabolic. And even prose - all are not the same.

They opened a new metro. There they also poke under a rib with varying degrees of success, and I read a block with a PDA under the load of a backpack. Sometimes it was not laughing, but in general, as without it. And music above the head.

Yes, music. Perhaps this was important this year, which was unequivocal for all other languages. There was a war more important than this music. It must be said: relatives are unharmed. But on the nerves nodules.

Now seriously. I grew up. Not in centimeters without a number, not up, not to the side, but in the deeper. I drank, sobbed and slept. Decided urgent affairs. Three sad dates happened, but we are used to it. Every year-no, no, but someone will leave.

Yes, by the way, almost every day I brought other people - from different corners of the planet. In the beginning - Sashka. In the end, Shurka appeared - the twin brother, not in St. Petersburg, in Moscow, but this is a long time to the essence of one coin. (Eh, teleport would finally)

S. returned, he became old, looked as before - he looked, but I did not understand that I was before these views "how then." So the love mica in my hearty rude adit all evaporated without a trace. There is a very caustic environment.

But it was a wonderful year, there would be no less than two, no more than a hundred such years. Such is hard in a row - the brakes are burning, tires fly, the oil dries. But a fucked sound.

Fate, not believing in stupidity, squeezed affectionately in a handful and said: "You're joking, so far nothing comes out. You just do not bend in the Hord - otherwise, Lord forgive."

The Keeper, on the contrary, was dissatisfied with me this year - threatened, promised to renounce, from indignation. And I bought a ticket to the ground. He pronounced, sobbing, speech, so pathetically breaking his hands that I wanted to make tricks cleaner than pink panther.

The laws of the Eternal Lands - as they met, have been carried out - with friends, with a pine child, screaming and strings of tuck. Yes, God, with the holiday of you - with two thousand ninth children. With a good set. With a new chat.

This year was so long, which is strange that this whole smoky, sick, milky will be about to go away. He did not save some, he saved others, one - Parnassus, the other - a larue. Eight is an infinity turned across.

The dry rest is with me. The river is saturated with the moon, like the sun - an apple -wrenket. Through - and you can break off. I hold in my hands a breaker with a coin flickering inside. Dry residue. New account. And that's it. But in general, what else?