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

There are many legends about Jack Crawford at the Academy: some call him "The Guru" and pronounce his name with reverent aspiration, as if it could cure cancer and solve a third world problem, others call him "The Rapist" and spit out his title as if they had tasted shit. I call him “Jack Crawford” as if I have only a vague idea of who he is.

Every time Crawford sees me, his face is clouded with melancholy and a certain amount of sadness, as if he is wondering how he can take advantage of me and does not find a suitable situation. His face turns into a grimace of pain because he cannot find a job in which I would work for him and be useful.

On the one hand, even an empty pack of cigarettes may be more useful than me: at least you can throw cigarette butts into it. I suffer from migraines, gastritis, chronic lack of sleep, attacks of misanthropy, tachycardia, a couple of neuroses, and I suspect depression.

On the other hand, I can find an explanation for the actions of other people.

No, it doesn't work like magic: I don't close my eyes and the sequence of events at the crime scene doesn't flash before them. No magic happens: I methodically track every step of the killer and, based on this, make an approximate course of his reasoning. Surely it is logical to assume that if a person poured himself a glass of water, he was thirsty? And if he killed someone, does that mean he had a motive? Another thing is that in the Academy many people take several years to even get to such basic considerations.

My mother said that my bias and disrespect for the authority of other people would one day ruin my life.

In the meantime, she brought me Jack Crawford, who tactfully coughs in the library doorway, giving me a few seconds to admit defeat in the battle with the essay.