Малина-В-Формалине - Нечего ждать - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

High skyscrapers stretch endlessly. Square meters pave the road to the point of not returning youth and dreams. Another working material thrown out with a stone womb. Spit on the tile floor of the toilet, evaporating among thousands of bacil. Another Malevich, a connoisseur of three hundred shades of black. A rare sip of freshness through the keyhole, reminiscent of a meaning. The sound of a junk hammer in the morning, instead of screaming roosters. Autist, in exiles to microblogs, extending his legs. The patron saint of cockroaches, an idol made of bread crumb. Cemented and inserted into the mechanism of prosperity of universal incomprehensible and veiled happiness. Forgotten venue -grader in the pictures of school albums. On the shelves of a supermarket, among cheap pasta. The balloon stuck in the branches of the tree, at the bottom of the city, under the songs of Philip Kirkorov. A large road cage covered with a forest animal. A set of dust from street bridges, with faith, hope in everyday joys among the living. The Truman show has not ended, it is here and now. Among advertising shields and faded eyes. A plasticine little man, trying on the images from the films, goes to one thing: under the stormy aviation of the announcer from the first channel, the tiles twisted with a spiral to burn in a communal apartment, leaving offspring in a concrete mixer.