Lyrics Ксения Слободенюк - О своём

The older, the more inside
and less out.
Thinking more. Less is needed.
You are awakened and somehow stuffy.
Look.

Everyone is drunk in the next room, and you are heating the kettle.
It's time to print photos and put in frames.
In the wheels of a stick
Easily break into one-two-three.

You write to someone, and some kind of pain in the letters.
Once burned, and now charred.
What seemed difficult -
Nothing amid pregnancies, convictions, running around.

Rings, cars, work, debt, care.
Somehow less ambition for "who are you? What are you?" .
Remember us unpredictable - carefree?

My dear, well, are you there?

We are all terminally growing up.
The cheekbones are harder and the voice is rougher.
Us not letting go
no wine, no wine, no abandoned ideas,
We are not letting go of the search for a panacea
and poetically veiled bridges.

We are all terminally ill.
Past, unsaid, nostalgia.
In front of us in reflection our souls are naked.
And it is increasingly seen how black they are.
We are alone.

Yesterday's Birthday is a noisy party,
Today - a cupcake, a plastic glass with wine
on the night bank in a circle of loved ones.

And in the afternoon
I kind of open my soul
But treacherously
I think about my own.