Seven in the morning, the square of the yard where to draw energy from

Cold country, a punishment cell planet, as Cartwright said

You can't clean it from dirt, no matter how much effort you spend

No matter how hard you try, there's no fucking way to whine here — the outskirts are the farthest edge (Once again)

And you simply won't understand without feeling a connection with it.

Frost weaves patterns on the window panes, ice will replace dirt.

As an acquaintance said after moving to Syracuse

"Ha, what do you know about snow, Liam?"

Garlands, lights, olivier are out there somewhere.

For two weeks, a blizzard swept my sleeping enclosure

Voya Montserata Caballe, so many years gone by

My past will definitely be swallowed up-Langolier (R-ra)

Everything is the same here, the landscape is industrial

The entrance was painted by a fan of the artist from Austria

That's the atmosphere here, no mistake.

Everything stopped dead, and there's no way back

I take it for granted

I fall asleep at home, wake up in transport

And it's getting light outside the window, I didn't notice

I was calculating the sums of the numbers on the ticket in my head.

I take it for granted

I wake up at home, fall asleep in transport

And the world will be beautiful, happy and bright

The main thing is that the sums of the numbers on the ticket match

The morning will pull us out of our dreams with its clamor

Minibuses run through the veins of the city, packed with people

I raised my hand, braked one, and disappeared.

In the intestines of yards — the exchange of illegal substances

Time draws wrinkles for us, destroys castles in the air

Thoughts are a hazy haze. "Eh, well, when have you become a queen?"

I'm in this closed crowd — hats, sheepskin coats and jackets

Students, aunts, patients are stupid

Hardworking men, there's a battalion commander in camouflage.

They all pull their straps as best they can.

They climb Maslow's pyramid like the Egyptians (Ha)

What can I do, my father is not an oilman

Therefore, the road is long, the taxi is fixed-route

The demob's buttonholes, on the other hand, sparkle with parachutes

There's a hole in the driver's cab, it's like I'm in code.

In a hood, a hat, a winter parka in the color of "wet slate"

Worn with backs and bags, like Bering ice floes

I consider surrender, I don't believe in altruism.

Through the ice on the window, this shore is white again

How did we end up here? Probably, we were told to do so from above.

Turn up the volume of the player so you don't have to hear

Talking to neighbors and not knowing what this society breathes.

I'm not filling my head with this nonsense

The dark canvas of the sky is filled with scarlet ink on the horizon

I take it for granted

I fall asleep at home, wake up in transport

And it's getting light outside the window, I didn't notice

I was calculating the sums of the numbers on the ticket in my head.

I take it for granted

I wake up at home, fall asleep in transport

And the world will be beautiful, happy and bright

The main thing is that the sums of the numbers on the ticket match