Журналист из Фурфура - Ослепительный мир - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Having experienced the terrible disease of one hundred percent loss of vision, scientists and great writers continue their works and works. and my drinking buddies and classmates, if they have such an illness, will look like moles and complete idiots.

They have already seen everything that could be seen here; why continue the line of this imperfection? in the skull crypt there is a whole pool of some unknown shit, and yet at one time you even dreamed about the fate of a dependent

now, it would seem, you can concentrate, get together and get busy, finally, with real deep creativity, no one will see posing or a hipster trace in your products, and even the most insignificant line now sounds like a prophecy

The poems actually turned out pretty good, life is just fucked up, how fitting! your father will read them at your grave, like, your son was a poet, not a family shame. and a half-rotten old woman without a jaw and without a rib tells her hipless girlfriend that your recitatives are bullshit!

but only in your imagination these beautiful, young girls are turned into ugly, dirty old women, in reality they have limbs, they are not eaten by worms and whole legions of boys and men pass through the rings of their hands.

In a dazzlingly dirty spring, you dream of killing yourself, or at least spending your time on the chaff, all the methods are good and good, but high-quality self-deception, like in a quiz, still doesn’t work out. those around you sympathize and are ready to help, but they only privately regret that you still won’t die.

the expectation of beer mixed with brake fluid, euthanasia and other similar things now looks quite natural. now there is also an element of struggle or a long-standing dispute about the fact that there is nothing that is not present to the touch or materially.

Flowers and dead people crawl out from under the snow, but in your head there is not a single good vision or face, atheism is now a very dubious reason for pride, just like laughing at an anecdote about the holy father.

and a whore. even if you call and pay, in the matter of presentation you will lose in comparison with her instead of carnal love - a blow to the head with an ax... damn, it didn’t happen again! a vision, although in real life you really expect it,

but instead, in the head, at best, an ugly futurist poet with a dissected hemisphere of the skull sprinkles brain fragments on the floor, while simultaneously showing himself the process of extracting appendicitis, and not poetry from the soul into a notebook, and then a dead rabbit climbs into the table, which in fact, more alive than you, in the form of a warm cap on the head of a bourgeois, justifies the process of existence of Hindu time cycles and one can of beer. should I buy it or not? The question is not even worth it with beer; it’s much more comfortable to wait until the rapidly approaching madness completely enslaves you.

and then one day the inexplicable happened: the God-forgotten doorbell screamed, words were uttered from the sound of which it was clear that an unearthly creature had stepped on the threshold; the creature turned out to be a specific woman with kind eyes and a beautiful face, she said that the meaninglessness and worthlessness of her own life brought her into your rotting house; she is ready to help drag along existence so that its load is not so heavy and cruel, and at that very moment her hand extended you a mug of tea by touch, you took an impressive sip...... and now you see that the world is really a sperm and we are all flying where we need to go . the soul watches how rude people rid your house of things you no longer need and your posthumous stench.