dobbro - run - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I'm not sick, I'm just in pain. I am yesterday today and now inseparably connected with my number 2, Sir William Bickford's non-alcoholic cord

I shook hands with my anti-me and we initiated the destruction of the universe, starting for some reason with the remains of my head, he wore the same pseudo-military jacket, and the same well-worn sneakers, but only with a normal figure and strange glasses in his backpack.

two bags of grass, seventy

five balls of mescaline,

five stripes

doba, and a pocket ashtray

, full

cocaine. And I had 78 kopecks, change from a bottle of water, and also a receipt from the Silpo supermarket, in which it was written that I was a “fucking idiot.” He dealt me an accurate blow to the head, and crossed to the other side of the street to his Caucasian friends. They greeted each other, kissing each other on the cheeks, leaving me to lick the blood from my lips, and I’ve also been vomiting for three days with vitamin C, an active, promising, communicative manager walks past with an interest rate like a tomahawk sticking out of his head, someone give me some cigarettes to eat and a player, I’ve been going for 18 and a half years and I haven’t seen anyone who feeds with bread instead of snow, there is no magic in this world

where can good brother Alexei go, smart brother Ivan and brave brother Dmitry where is the payphone here I want to hear the voice of my classmate Myshkin or at least the funny theatergoer Stern someone someone

although what can we talk about with those whose helpline for drug addicts is open until 22.00, as if all drug addicts stop letting their ides under their skin or, having overdosed, are immortal until exactly 8.15 so that they have time to call the fucking service and die with a feeling of fulfilled civic duty, and now gentlemen, experts, the question is how much kilometers of bytes and watts left until my personal catharsis where are your warriors one where are your octobers lenin where are your victims chikatilo

where am I where am I

buried under stale memes, accordion photoshopped voices drowned out by the waves of Radio Radonezh

tenderness through the pores of the skin I love I love and have always loved where are you who are you broken into fragments in the grins of the metro fauna

and I'm an asshole, as always, as always a loser, at a distance, holy Steve Jobs is laughing at me, he says, a loser won't come to such an SBU and washes down his holy words with blessed apple juice, it's like the holy bread of Kharkov, blessed by the father of the church and on sale at double the price, amen, I shout to him and plastic is falling everywhere

snow on the head and under the feet of the major and the people from it too, although no no

how then in the gateway the red pipe hits the plastic snow and the asphalt hitting the feet through the thin soles

This is bequeathed even by the Chinese masters of kung fu ran if you cell drugs in da school zone from another life my brother says that I ran faster than him as a child and he couldn’t catch up with me never mix drugs with booze the only parting words I can give my brother in life is this It happens