козявка в книге - после нашей эры - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Imagine. You wake up, and the newspapers are in the windows and smells of something grandiose.

From the first rays, the street became inflamed, like a urethra at the carrier of chlamydia. Underground scarabs froze at granite stations. The days run by gallop, as on the darkest night, the lights were halo. The children in schools will not be moved from the railing; In the grocery, what do you want - take it. And you could not admit to her that you have anyone besides her.

Imagine. In gas spasms, the plate will no longer squeeze; At the entrance of the lady in the years, so accustomed to shkvorni and complain, they will not condemn someone out of place. That's just spring, everything pulls green wigs on the blackness of empty prospectuses. Live breaks with a drum fraction and millets beat on the windowsill. Thoughts of the breakthrough. You would like to show her some Kinchik David Fincher or Milos Forman. You would like to call her by name, but the boards in the apartment bark in silence.

Just imagine. Radio rack does not open the mouth; It’s like the pants on a weighty one, copper threads hang on the pillars; In libraries, books are silent, a fire calancha is sleeping; And at the neighboring entrance, asphalt failed like a nose syphilitic. The solar disk sat down on the earthen buttocks. I would have to spend her home, but in the world of free Volv and Toyota, in the world of expired yogurts and canvas, there are no more at home. And there is no more she.

Introduced?

Maybe then my message is stupid. You turn to yourself and this time do not cough. There, outside the window, the street is seething like a volcano, and milk spread on a plate of yellow puddle; The company drunk along the street suffered; The neighbor's daughter returned from school, and the piano began to play with them.

There are things that can be said without words. Here is the phone. Here is the number.

Call.