The fan — spinning Gloves — I’m wearing Window — open Music — playing Washer — spinning From 704 to 802 West to east Face the south, it’s true Last day comes next week soon All set No dialect Sorry again Just love-sick story Current state: a nasty, messy den Cardboard stacks and papers past the sane Dust and hair strands fillin' the domain, Items that are not in their right place, And strange lost objects without a trace Plastic bottles appear, unidentified A gradient-colored biotope inside Rotten sink, rotten self I seek Afternoon, reason I peek Didn’t smell it, now I do Looking for the reason too It won't turn into a public scene, It’s not as bad as it may seem The fan — spinning Gloves — I’m wearing Window — open Music — playing Washer — spinning From dreamer state to chasin' my own dream West to east Direction lost within the stream My birthday is the day of the scheme All set No dialect Sorry again I’m wicked charming A city of scum, beyond what's seen Trash cans overstuffed, utterly obscene Eyes of surveillance fillin' the terrain, Beings who are not in their right space, And strange lost people without a face Where they came from, where they go A biotope of dull neon haze Under the bridge, the stench stays Pretending pure in the decay My dating life may be going quite well, But a burning look in the iris’ space No panic, no sign It’s not that bad this time The fan — spinning Gloves — I’m wearing Window — open Music — playing Washer — spinning Empty back street, I walk mind-free Ordinary birthday, same routine The awful flavor of canned coffee Stopping there was fate’s irony It won't turn to a violent crime Behind the Chinese place The fan — spinning Gloves — I’m wearing Window — open Music — playing Washer — spinning
