имяисполнителя - мыши - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Cold corpses, rattling pipes, mole -holes and singularity, languid, loud, terrible orgies from the sounds of death and surgical scalpels. No one will come, nothing will help, death on the threshold prays to us - killed. These white walls and lattice windows do not allow to feel all the freedom of thought. The orderlies beat with sticks - it hurts, funny. Nothing will help us, we will all die here. Jesus, from the third chamber, will be bored for all those who did not come back, he knew all the corpses of those personally, they walked, friends, talked, loved ...

Everything is like in children. Garden, but only - thoughts. They are still childishly naive here, but the only problem is that here they are superfluous. They are sent to an electric chair for them, they are forced to collect a dirty court, and the orderlies, like dogs, are pushed and pushed, they suck in power in power. It is dishonest and this is a lie, we are exactly the same people, but if it crept into the minds of doctors squeezes the juice out of them. I hear the walls cry, I cry with them. Drawing on the wall like a fat cat devouring itself quietly lies crazy. I was allowed to write, gave a pen, paper. But they were forbidden to write petitions and protective diplomas for the bachelor. I will go out soon, my friends told me so. Well, those who planted me here. Yura, Andrei and Natasha, it seems that they were called that. All in bricks, all in syllables. I am quiet a fate, letting a new "I" into my mind. Me and I, there are two of us, we are friends. Real, not like those Julia, Sergey and Masha. All in bricks, all in the shelves, in my mind are sung by the screams of the abandoned, I quietly take the handle in my hand, with the click I release ink, I can give it to paper, trying to concentrate all thoughts and streamline knowledge. I see God, I see the universe, I feel every macromolecule. A quiet rumble of trains, born somewhere in the north. I remember how I was going here in the hope of finally gaining a rest. I was promised a beautiful coffin, on which they will write a gold on a red or white border "thank you for everything, thanks for the thoughts. Pleasant dreams to you, lovely rats." I will bury them with me, I will take the dead and drag them into the coffin. These are my mice, my words, thoughts. They are under the skin, on the walls and in the ceiling. In the mattress, in the eyes and language. They are not plague, white, cute. How alive. More lively those who will bury me here. Those orderlies are actually a car, they are cruel, cynical, evil. They do not care about us, like everyone else. Love yourself and your own mice.