Floating everyday unconscious
Wormhole of rutine goes deeper
Itching in time rearrange us
Turning the voice of the purpose to whisper

And this truth crushed backbone
There is no such a thing as again
Moments are wasted forever

The prostitution of self forgiveness
Doesn't seem to give the cheese
Prostitution of self forgiveness
Blocks the way for your release

Corpses of good intentions cover this land three layers thick
Nither of us comprehend what the fuck we've got brains for
till you just cut it.

Clarity is form of darkness
Way of thoughts is just a habbit
We're false copies of our best selves
We exchange it just to rate it
Just to rate it

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