something tin

Альбом «Настя Сорофанова»

Ягода (cover аффинаж)

As the moon stole the sun’s brilliance, the earth shuddered, and nature recoiled in agony. Trees withered, their leaves crisping to ash, and once vibrant forests turned to desolate wastelands. Oceans, once teeming with life, became stagnant pools of darkness, devoid of movement or sound.

People, too, succumbed to the moon’s malevolent grasp. Their vitality drained away, leaving behind hollow husks of what once was. Despair swept through cities and villages like a relentless tide, as the life force of humanity dwindled to nothingness.

In the chilling embrace of the moon’s shadow, the earth lay silent and still, a barren wasteland devoid of life. And as the last remnants of light faded away, the world slipped into eternal darkness, forever enslaved by the moon’s insatiable hunger.

moon’s hunger

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

A wet day, a ghostly dream,  
Alarm clock, back to bed.  
I step onto my balcony,  
To start the day with a cigarette.
The day promises sun,  
To warm and give me strength,
I hope it will pass quickly,
I will forget everything again.
The cigarette burns out, summer's just begun,  
I disappear in weeks in search of a new light.
I’ll spend my time wisely, lying in bed,  
Minutes, hours and weeks slip by in cigarette smoke.  
My view: a wall and cardboard windows,  
Native is close,  
I will cast a cold glance,
A drag, and I fly.
My view is asphalt and cardboard people,,  
I am nobody here.  
I’ll pretend I’m one of them,  
That I’m with them.

I cross out all plans for the day,  
Instead of self-improvement,  
I will spit on them, 
I will roll a joint, 
I am flying.
An ordinary day, I fly back to bed,  
There is an altar of pleasure,  
And so the days drag on, from Monday  
Until Sunday.

WOMAN SCREAMING

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

I consist of worship services, church songs fly under the vaults.
I fall to my knees, eyes to heaven, let us pray to the Lord.
Our Father, save my soul, though baptized in holy waters,
A mother drags a child's hand through the snow to church under the wind of Russian cold.
I consist of drunkenness and abuse, spare me some coins for bread and I’ll run for a bottle,
On benches in gray neighborhoods, teenagers rap in a circle.
Will you come with me at recess? The older ones gather in the smoking spot,
There is alcohol, you will run away from violence, if only there will be enough for bread later.
I am made of kleptomania—take more, stuff it in a bag.
“Mr security guard, don’t tell mom, let’s settle this without trouble.”
Again and again gifts to my sister, I'm going home, unnoticed by anyone, but
Mom is sitting on the bed crying, she found out, the family Eden is destroyed.
I am made of childish naivety—“Will we be friends? Just don’t hurt me.”
I'll do everything you ask, I'm going, NO, I’m running to wipe away your tears!
The choice is cruel—it’s never me, the bright coals of friendship's fires are smoldering,
I'm burning with them, roaring and sobbing in an attempt to save myself, not to burn, not to be burned out.
I am carved from lonely nights, love letters suspended unanswered.
I'm going to write again and again, in the hope that someone will definitely come.
The morning ray will encircle the face with the caress of the gentle sun's light,
I am made of countless lives and the trills of birds singing behind the house.

The past spins beneath my feet—
It is the most fragile.
The present is angry—
The present is dull.
Everything is in your head
But in mine, only strangers.
In mine, there are only sparks.
In mine, there are only stars.
And I live every moment,
And every smell is recognized,
And again tears flow like a river.
After all, I was never realized.
All my past is melting,
All my past is whines.
At night, I am elsewhere,
And by day, I dream of home.
The sky will give water; the hot sun will warm,
Why am I cold? My hands are going numb.
I live inside my head—everything around freezes.
I am icy again,
And I warm my heart again.
I am neither there nor here—
I live life halfway.
And I will spread all the old cuts and scars wider,
I plunge into them headfirst,
I cast my gaze on my loved ones,
And that's all the forgotten has surfaced.
And I will freeze in the forgotten,
The old is with me again,
I will not lose it.
In it, I will find my peace.
In it, I will find my pack.
In it, I will find my place.
And in it, I will find my home.
Thank you—the past knows me.
We are good friends.


THE PAST SPINS

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

In order to be happy, you need to drink, steal, and fuck.
In order to be happy, try painting.
In order to be happy,
Fill your brain with a rainbow of drugs.
In order to be happy,
In order to become happy,
In order to be happy,
You need to drool on your pillow.
No need to cover it with a blanket.
You won’t get up from it—
You’ll fall.
In order to be happy,
Try not to hide anymore.
In order to become happy,
In order to become fake,

You live.
You don’t live.
No—you live.
You live.
You live now.
You live forever.
You are forever alive.
I am forever with you.
You are forever with me.
I am alive.
You are alive.
The organism disperses.
It lives.
I am alive.
We are alive.
You are alive too.
You live.

YOU LIVE

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

In short, there’s this moment when the filters run out, and it’s snowing outside. If you try to purely imagine what’s happening out there, you’ll immediately feel, with every nerve in your body, how the frost tears at your skin. It’s impossible to open your eyes—you think you’re about to lose your sight if you do, shocked by the rushing, icy wind.
What a mess.
And you can barely move your legs—ice is a dangerous enemy. It’ll definitely fuck you up at least once, so beware of it. So, the filters didn't want to be bought, my jacket and 10 sweaters to put on, and I decided not to go anywhere the fuck.
And imagine, no cardboard, no paper, not a fucking crust and it’s so offensive.
And you have to, you know what to do...
To climb into the black, stinking ashtray with your own hands to stir up these deadly stinking used filters in order to find that very clean, diamond-clean specimen, languidly beckoning you.
You take it in your hand, bring it to your nose and feel this hellish, shriveled fart smell.
You have to relive the situation with the street with your brain again, you don’t want to go out, of course.
Well, fuck it, I’ll take you, my stinking friend, into my mouth, I’ll open for you the honor of having a second life, which you are initially incapable of, because you are disposable, like all of us, basically because you beckon me and I want you, you are so accessible, simple and necessary, that there is simply no way to refuse you, my dear friend with the smell of garbage, let's go have fun together, you can once again merge with this lovely green devilry.
In general, my friend, hold the structure, everything rests on you, don't let me down, my friend. All around. Let's go fly.

SKIT PRO FILTR

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

I was flying, I was looking at something around me,
I wanted to find it all, but my eyes could not see.
I was flying over the river, over seas and the dawn,
I was flying, I was pale, but I searched for your voice.

I’ll look under a stone – there’s a message from you,
I am not human at all, my organs spin and turn.
My scorched wings carry me forward,
There seems to be only the sunset light of the sun, but your voice calls me.
I fly around all the fields, plains, cliffs, and wastelands,
The northern wind will show the way, I will hurry.
Let it blow through my tangled locks,
I hear your voice, I fly faster.

YOUR VOICE B

альбом "неприятная музыка", 2024, техас - нью йорк

I chew on a slice of chalk, it melts in my mouth,
I slipped unnoticed and woke up in hell.
Here the devils glance sideways at my dark, sweet soul,
Slipped unnoticed, how beautiful it is here.
The cauldrons boil, the fires hiss, and souls smolder at the bottom,
There’s a place for me, yes, yes, yes, yes, the perfect place for me.
I've accumulated a fuck ton of shit in my inner,
My strategy in hell
Is unpredictable.
They’re making soup out of me, the broth is boiling,
My sins flow out to the surface through my pores.
My skin melts like red velvet, melts and melts,
The devils like my soup very much, like it, like it,
Gathering all the scraps, I crawl out,
They don’t need me anymore, don’t need me, don’t need me.
All my darkness has been sucked out, there’s almost no body left,
No one cares about me alive in hell.

Asya Ospa

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