перерывпятьминут ft. добраяпросто - отвращение - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Rains wash off masks from your faces drawn with colored colors, convertible on the cut -off bodies of sweaters.

It’s so easy to disappear, and turn yourself into a name.

Pull the SIM card, remaining in the apartment, not to appear online, twist the discs with films.

To get out, except for products in the nearest round -the -clock, burning eyes in front of the monitor.

Monotonous.

Changing the roles.

Not noticing that in May snow outside the windows.

We will be forgiven for all our words.

My ship will sink, from the number of hearts that I try to accommodate.

I sort your stories fingers with thin fingers.

I feel awkward.

I'm nobody.

Not a poet, not a god, so that it is so easy to entrust me with everything without a trace.

I just ask you to be near.

Instead, the emptiness covers me with a blanket.

And for more than one day there is silence.

Washing off fragments, keeps something from the extreme.

The words necessary for happiness have become extremely banal.

The invisible force beats through the heart.

And with threads, the zeal pulls off.

As appropriate as an asociality.

I was not recognized, and probably this is the only reason that draws to the bottom.

I will briefly appear before my eyes.

We break ourselves.

Themselves.

Shtepseli are stuck into the outlet, die from the current.

Cinema, short film.

“But all that is - your lies and porches, not the same what otherwise smear” (?)

Cuts on the fingers, this is the Putin program and children in the headphones of the confusing are behind the remote controls.

Heroin is getting more expensive, it is very reckless to throw me into the bowl of abundance, this is a mug - which I can’t overcome.

And the truth is not in strength, but in pharmacy powders, which do not work, but sawing consciousness, I do a glitch to forget.

It is a fashionable hipster, while you write in your blogs how you can live unbearably wretched.

And fuck me, I'm sitting in the room, I am the saddest and lonely.

Try to write about me as a new block or the next representative of pop modernism, although it all does not make sense, in fact it plays a role only how much I will not see a female body or cigarette in a fifty dollars.

You grew up in 'porridge' (?), It became bad to live, for that, our Crimea and calmly on the street of broken lamps, where it does not go out "good".

I will drink four tablets, and fly into the most closed space.