Раз-два-три, ветер изменится - Глава 11 отрывок 2 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Together with Hannibal, I happily forget about the existence of studies, books, black and white films and new films with Barbara Streisend. I forget about my favorite Saturday night show, the daily news, and the newspapers and magazines I should be getting my information from. Everything I need to know about the world is contained in a man who spends ten minutes preparing breakfast and forty minutes choosing clothes.

I don’t watch TV, I don’t listen to the radio - I don’t need any of this to wake up on the night from Tuesday to Wednesday with the fact that my heart, choking with a suffocating attack of fear, decides to leave my chest. My body is generally not inclined to productive cooperation and prefers to conduct an underground confrontation with me, refusing to perform basic functions. I try to get out of bed as quietly as possible, and as soon as I step on the cool floor, the pressure in my temples begins to be unbearable. Dr. Lecter spends not just minutes, but hours, teaching me how to cope with this headache: I hear his muffled voice forming “Inhale” and, like a schoolboy, I diligently follow the command. Surely I could wake him up; him, lying on the other half of the bed, immobilized in a deep, heavy sleep; him, unconsciously running his hand along my side of the bed, but that night I pulled on my clothes and went downstairs.

Most of my actions are dictated by the desire to escape from my own life and at least for a few minutes pretend to be someone else - I fill a glass of water and watch the streetlights shine in shapeless spots outside the window, dimmed by the cold. I watch as the strokes of light merge into one thick line, I hear a hoarse “He won’t find me, he won’t be able to find me...”.

I rest my hand on the sink, but for some reason my fingers are burning from the cold and my knees are trembling from fear and fatigue. My head is cloudy and my mouth has a putrid taste of cheap alcohol; “He won’t find me, he won’t find me,” I repeat again and again and run my palm through the crust of sticky snow. I swallow the stinging air and tilt my head back to look at the full moon. Once upon a time the world seemed to me extremely perfect, the ideal work of an ideal Master, only then it turned out that, upon closer study, the shadows do not correspond to the figures, the anatomy of the bodies is static, and the “great plan” itself failed.

I slam my palm against my palm and jump in place, as if I’m afraid to make up my mind, as if I don’t yet know what exactly I’m going to do. This will be my impromptu, my first work directly with the public - I’m excited, and this excitement makes circles swim before my eyes. I have to see everything very clearly: the black outline of his body on the white canvas, the red drops along the path - I have to be focused and collected.

I try to move away from the sink, or at least partially free myself from this experience, but for some reason I still rub the snow between my fingers until the icy water drips onto my boots. I'm rushing around like a hunted animal: I haven't slept for several days and haven't eaten for about a week, because I can't leave the house and I'm afraid that he will come to my apartment. I'm afraid that he will come for me, I'm afraid that he will get me, just like my father got me from under the bed, and humiliate me. I tighten my grip on the knife, hoping to feel safe.

I'm tired of fighting and being defeated all the time, I'm tired of running from things that will sooner or later catch up with me - I'm extremely tired of living the way I lived before, and so I make a new cut.