We, we mere Muscovites, we had no choice but to make this place our home. With, with lack of light, and echoed voices and chills that reach the bone. I wander through these pitch black tunnels, away from the comforts of exhibition. I can't help but think that these dreaded stories aren't superstition. Rational thought is abandoned like these stations. With every step I swear I hear an imitation. I can feel a consciousness that can't be fathomed. It is pressing down hard on me in this all-consuming darkness. We, we mere Muscovites, we had no choice. With, with lack of light and echoed voices. These tunnels are alive.Teksty umieszczone na naszej stronie są własnością wytwórni, wykonawców, osób mających do nich prawa.
