Текст песни Mystic Air - Epic Fail
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Я как-то слышал анекдот: «Мужчина приходит к врачу. Жалуется на депрессию, говорит, жизнь груба и жестока, что он чувствует себя одиноким в угрожающем мире. Врач предлагает простой рецепт: «Великий клоун Пальячи сегодня в городе, сходите, это вас подбодрит». Мужчина взрывается слезами. «Но доктор», - говорит он - «Я и есть Пальячи». Хороший анекдот. Всем смеяться. Барабанная дробь. Занавес. Thoughts confused. Asphalt blacker than ash. Fatigue, like death, she comes when your patience comes a limit. Among the absurdity, hypocrisy and farce - each day turns into night. And the black night only human vices. Here in the swamp of information chaos, under the glare of thousands of flashing signs, billboards vanity, ignorance, and pernicious morality, is simply not possible to breathe, without covering the face with a thick cloth bloodied arms. Yes, it is a failure. The Company is not able to distinguish for their habits - obvious signs of kooky monster, and I, as the latest recorded in schizophrenics there is only one - can not help ensure that both persistently and predictably Humanity devours itself, stepping on a rake own all-consuming self-centeredness. Raw creates raw materials. Shit eats crap. It seems so, and runs the famous rule of Matthew. When you keep in your wallet mud thousands of sewer pipes, becoming sick from an understanding of the scope of its primitive power, and it's not even looking at the fact that we all bought - will remain here on earth, every millimeter revalued the phenomenon of life. Just yesterday, I was flipping through the biblical gospel. Steep, with a flashlight in the dark. Today, I have to climb up the fire escape and experiencing inner emptiness, afraid to look down from the irresistible temptation to jump. Jump into the fucking hell that created me. To feel anything but unbearable emptiness and hopelessness, against the background of the walls and the people who actually do not differ much from each other. Sensing the smell of the deaf community seething hostility - I keep getting harder ironic cough. All that is written on the boards of social networks - will be forgotten tomorrow. What exactly can not forget - it's about a hole in a ship's hold, a hole in the heart of vzorvanyh buildings of bullets stuck in the body of the personal tragedies and wounds healing in his eyes. I see the world through, but still can not come to terms with his duratskimi rules. He grabs me by the throat, shvyryaeet me on the ground, gnawing teeth so that my "I" turns into a fucking sieve, it burns me to the core, but I continued and continue to regenerate, bezchuvstvenno, formless, disfigured and reflexively. Because the truth - never dies alone remains eternal damnation for any human resourcefulness, empty forms of charity and lies. Human society would be a perfect mechanism, if not billions of bad bastards that inhabit it. All of them are hiding there, behind the facade appollonovym "normality," creeping like cockroaches under the cover of night, the smell of scraps thrown in someone's trash. Their "normal" involves all the same pagan morality, all the same gregarious momentum, intention and intracerebral erosion, after thousands of years of history, writing someone's blood. True culture - is not an option, the true culture - is uncontrollable hunger, thirst and greed. Why reinvent the "perpetual motion", when there is the stomach and idiocy? The role of the slave, a prostitute, a madman or a lousy clown - that is all that we offer as an alternative to suicide, the symbolic right to vote plywood nobody taking care of the social subject. Yes, you are not a slave - if you sell yourself well, you are not a prostitute - if you are doing more than it receives in return, and you do not clown - if others of you feel sad. Almost everything in this world is based on fear, lies, money and the herd mentality, leaving the last decision of the authority of the majority, that majority which yearns for baiting, blood, spectacle, no idea what it's like to play on other people's feelings fingers nailed to the keys with nails. Damn, and to whom I turn I intestine. To laugh, to throw stones at me, or try to wear out - you decide. The gulf that had reached my "I" of the critical dimensions of the galaxy - it is already impossible to stop, do not fill in, just enough to peer intently into my eyes, to see what I see before me ...
I once heard the anecdote: "A man comes to the doctor. Complains about depression, says, life is rough and cruel, he feels alone in a threatening world. Doctor offers a simple recipe: "The great clown Palyachi today in the city, go, it's you cheer." Man bursts into tears. "But the doctor", - he said - "I am the Palyachi". A good anecdote. Everybody laugh. Drumroll. A curtain.
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