soulmate - мальвина - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Apathy for weekdays. That feeling, as if with a temperature in bed: rather you want to open than to change something. And in every dream you return to the summer, squeezing the envelopes of happy tickets. Do you remember? The neighbors called, wrote, they simply were bitched from the schedule, each passerby looked after us. There are no more us in this reality, from this minute we simply do not exist. Sometimes the voice/scream is not heard, in the abyss of love, choke on the blood. Not everyone receiving letters is happy. But your voice was trembling so strong, not cold, we just played with nerves, squeezing the lymphs, the sleepy artery, we just liked to fly together. Grades was measured in Celsius, and longing was measured by the milirams of tears. You just understand that I can’t live in depression without you. Just understand my sadness and sadness, I was desperately eager for you, in kilometers of spilled blood in the asphalt, for hours at a point or in an empty KPZ. Pierrot choked in verses or songs, and I remember kisses on the reverse. Remember, Malvina, your own palms, remember even under the perhydrol. Call more, Malvina, and cut hands, Pierrot drank, hanged in the bathroom. Your curls sparkled in the sun, but now it will take off the depression of the spell? Sad people wandered around in the district, empty eyes opened the truth to us, in empty supermarkets at night and drunk, in search of only captivating happiness. On the distance from people and trains, and trams, sad people turned on the songs to us; They loved to love and were loved, but Yura, we all here for a long time. You were called for an inspection, and I was sick, you poured whiskey, and I was all in blood, they tried to rape you in my soul, but I'm just sick and do not need it. Write the dying notes on Twitter, and the photo on the tambler and sob, forget about sadness, this gangbaging is pouring on the knees, but we need sadness. Pierrot wrote about this, do not remember dramatically. Pierrot drank and died on Vykhino, in the shitty Khrushchev-five-story, knowingly knowing about our tragedy. Call more, Malvina, and cut hands, Pierrot drank, hanged in the bathroom. Your curls sparkled in the sun, but who will now remove the spression of the spell? Sad people wandered around in the district, empty eyes opened the truth to us, in empty supermarkets at night and drunk, in search of only captivating happiness. In the distance from people and trains, and trams, the moment will come when I fall drunk from the windows on the dirty asphalt of the bridge, a crescented crescent, with a broken fate you were called for a fit, and I died; They loved you so much, Madame Curie, it doesn’t matter to you anymore, and I became a witness to the life of the final, Malvina.