Раз-два-три, ветер изменится - Глава 5 отрывок 3 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

I tear off the skin of the skin from my palm, carefully washing my finger behind my finger, and when the hand begins to bleed, I move to another. I am very worried that these palms, smeared in the blood of this guy, which I squeezed a member yesterday, will not be washed - I need to go to the academy, record lectures, and if they remain as dirty, I will have to get rid of them, understand? ..

After all, with these hands, I held him by the neck, when, having put his cock into the wound in his stomach, he quickly moved inside, and moaned every time when an agonic cramp ran through his body. With these hands, I stroked his lips and whispered: "I love you, I love you very much." With this hand, I held him by the throat, with this hand I wounded him, with this hand I made a man out of him. And this is not my hand - this is the hand of the Lord, who makes perfection from garbage.

Only my eyes are covered with tears, and I, having issued some strange wheezing, turn off the water and go out into the corridor, closing my eyes tightly and hoping that my gentleman will decide to stay in the bathroom, and better-exclusively in my imagination.

But he is probably very tired of being lonely and therefore slowly reaches for me into the kitchen. Probably, a month in the ground does not have to stay in a closed space for a long time.

The fact is that I did not plan to receive guests, did not plan to arrange a lunch for the horde of people, and this is the reason why I have a bite of my cheek, seeing my second guy. They do not look at each other-perhaps there is nothing to say-but only publish some kind of guttural moan.

My accompanying person stands next to me when I put the kettle, and it is not at all embarrassed that I spill boiling water on the floor, and then, pouring coffee into a cup with a trembling hand, soak and tablecloth. They do not pronounce me for a mess and inhustness - while I spread oil on bread with a thick layer, they, with this deaf champing, overlap the pieces of their intestines again and again, ironing their fingers with the fingers of the gap, as if trying to re -glue them. Maybe you need to offer them a jam, or toasts, or a gin with a tonic. Maybe you need to lead myself more welcoming, only by putting a plate on the floor, I kneel down, unable to take out their empty faces, full of some stupid grief and anger, impotent rage and dissatisfaction with the world. Perhaps I am ashamed. Perhaps I'm just too impressionable.

They look like stingy usteen people who over and over over and over their gold: under the table, I see how they almost synchronously smoothing their guts. They pointlessly recount the number of scraps, hoping that now they will find the missing one, now, literally in a second, they will be able to start breathing again. They hope: there is at least one thousandth of the chance that they are not dead, that this is a stupid joke. They hope that the darkness and cold in which they found themselves can be driven away, but only some vague foreboding of endless disappointment does not allow them to completely plunge into fantasy, where they are alive again. How much they want to return after they realized that life - this short gap between the womb of the mother and the womb of the grave - was much better than eternal silence and peace, in which nothing happens, and only the time with a creak grinds their bones.

“I'm sorry,” I have too hoarse, stifled voice, which goes to their feet. - I'm so sorry. I am very sorry ... - We are not a joyful and inspiring breakfast at Tiffany - we are on the commemoration of Finnegan, and I, inaudibly wheezed into the shameful floor: “Excuse me, I’m really sorry,” I try to merge with the color of linoleum.

The tongue is not adapted for expressing sorrows - it seems to me when I shut my mouth with my palm and begin to cry softly. How can I explain that I am sorry that they are dead? .. How can I explain that I am empathizing with their loss of my life, as my own?