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By the straight petholini on a January night curved notes dissolve wet hands. It rains. Maybe it was snow. Only a bit of hope in my pocket was left. And I want that, there a beggar to give it, he fell asleep under his fucking illusions. A tinge of tenderness, after thirst for a great dream. Any foreign clothes that have been crushed ... I can not sing. But I have a musical rumor. Sing my soul. Do not pass away. I do not believe you can to be blind, proud and deaf, when the soul in me the scary fever becomes.