Текст: Comadre. Hamlets.

This is it. The nights that stand on two the morning breakfast blues, we must not hold back what keeps us in tact. Our secret tired lonely eyes, still we keep out necks high. And while your cons and everlongs all sound the best. A plague builds from the space between your shirt and your chest. So save us the phrase "a sight for bored lives" we're just a city of hamlets, minus surprise. So from the end to the start, wolf tickets aside, welcome home a premature suicide