Lyrics абуя ко - маяк

The dirty smell of the white paternal cellar flowing under the dressing room. A lonely frozen body drowns in bed, imagining himself the sovereign of the living seas. His proud schooner goes around a ten-meter wave, flicking his icy hand across a wet sheet. The body kicks, shifting the center of gravity to the side. The current against the wind. What could be worse. Two twisted legs at the chin are thrown over the blanket. A schooner takes off above the water and falls, splattering brown fingernails on the fingernails dangling in the mouth. A window is open in the white basement. The weather is clear, but it blows hard, not like before. Bursting through the window with a whistle, the wind strikes the sail of the schooner of a lone wanderer. The body flips on its side. The body writhes in pain. The last leap into the abyss. The schooner flies into a wave and the sides shatter into pieces, throwing his head to the head of the bed. The schooner, half mired in water, continues on her way. A lighthouse is visible in the fog of a blue cloud of sea salt. He lights up hope. Inaccessible, but quite suitable for a dream, which you need to strive for. The legs of the bed begin to stagger. Red foam drags the schooner out of the small mouth. The schooner is doomed. There can be no night without a day. There can be no salvation without sorrow. The body does not give up. Little hands grabbed onto the mattress. Schooner completely goes under water. After a second, she flies out from the vent of a bottomless abyss, scratching her palms in the blood. The nostrils swell. A purple veil falls to the floor, covering the western spot of acediprol. The white basement is shackled. He is filled with languid moaning. Barely audible, but restraining kilohertz, caught by the ear, in spatial tension. Like an ultrasound, with a creak, cutting a smooth hand of an intertemporal shell. The schooner, beaten, but not crushed, heads for the Lighthouse. Sniffing breath distant. Great view not to die today. The schooner slowly but purposefully originates. In the lower reaches of renunciation, now the water is warm, calm. Silly ear four years ago. I could not. And you could not. Now what? The body suffocates, greedily licking its teeth with a sticky tongue. The storm goes into serenity. Taking your last strength. Eyes roll up. The metal door of the white basement explodes. Ugly people fly in. They lay the body on its side and promise that everything will be fine. A carmine coil crunches in the mouth. Easy breathing through the nose. But the lighthouse remains. Inaccessible, but quite suitable for a dream.