Not zhelaniya don’t want to smoke out the window, catching your look of casual indifference, all thoughts are put in another pile, suffering forever with delusions of grandeur. I don’t want to erase you from the past and know that I’m damn independent; I don’t want to shout: “good!” and send you to hell (of course mentally). And there is no desire to breathe But, it is necessary to close eyes, drawn all their weaknesses. I know — not wishes come true They’re just useless and tired.