Who has decided this way?
I can't scream ..>>.. stuck-throat.
A natural image - a stabbing pain in my sad soul.
Two separated warm hands, then a look behind a pane,
Then a wet presence on my face,
Then the silence of my narcotic world ...

Who has decided this way?
I can't sleep ... i'm so alone.
I visualize your face - and i think that my life's gone.
Firstly i see your tearful eyes then the barred doors of a train
I don't think about suicide - 'coz i know, we'll meet again.

In this world can't exist a god.
Spiritual masochism slit this throat.
It's a sort of self-excitement ...
A macabre repertory under my modest clothes.

I think about all those days
Brushing against my old cicatrixes
I try to go back ... to conventionality.
But i think it's so unfair ... i can't give a fuck.
A bitter shit to swallow, living in costant hate.