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

This is not one lost Sunday, more than one missed trip to the church - this is twenty -one days, which I resolutely delete from my life, knowing the joy of cohabitation. It is curious, but no one cares that I decide to live a civil marriage with two corpses: my headman does not break the phone in an attempt to find out why I stopped going to classes, Jack Crawford does not call me to an exhibition of violence victims. Although, if an exhibit had been added there, I would have learned about this first: he would have come to my door to testify his respect for the fact that I did nothing once again. Neither the FBI, nor psychiatric clinics, nor Dr. Lecter are interested in me - in a word, no one - and at that time I’m starting on an amazing journey along Kedron.

I think I can reveal this secret to you, if only because Bertolucci will reveal it thirty years later. So, two corpses and me. We have breakfast together, read books together, occasionally watching TV. We never argue, because they obviously do not have their own opinion about the aggressive states policy in international relations, besides, they do not particularly complain the results of the chortonian experiments, so we are just sitting for hours, staring at each other while they recount their insides. Well, time can be spent with less benefit.

In all this relaxing vacation from routine classes at the Academy there are a couple of minuses. Firstly, the smell. I easily do not notice his first week, it seems to me ridiculous and impolite to find fault with dead people with claims that they should take advantage of the cologne. However, at the end of the eleventh day, I have to open the window, but the guys do not notice my hint: they silently continue to rot in my living room, creating some tension.

Secondly, their unwillingness to remain alone. I can’t leave the room - they follow me, I can’t go to the toilet - they stand nearby, I can’t read - they sit down in a semicircle. They roam after me like lost dogs, and occasionally extend their hands to me, touching my knee.

And thirdly-the key element of Sassens,-nights.

We sleep together.

Do not condemn me. I honestly tried to stay on the bed alone, I wrapped them out, I screamed, I cried, I begged them, I asked, I knelt down, but they filed next night next to me: one behind my back, the other in front of my face. And hours until three in the morning I looked into other people's eyes covered with a whitish film, as if lay with his girlfriend, and was afraid to fall asleep. Because who knows what the corpses can do while you sleep.

The fact is that I could not be awake too long: three sleepless nights, and then life turned into a series of inconsistent events. So I make myself coffee, but for some reason I lie in the bath and look at the ceiling. So I read the book, but I am sitting, locked in the closet, and chewing the sleeve of the shirt, trying not to yell. So I write some kind of summary, but I tearing a strip of skin at the hands and, clinging my eyes so much that multi-colored circles appear under the eyelids, trying to forget about the existence of my neighbors.

Therefore, on the fourth day, I cowardly surrendered: I lay down on the bed, and they, like good labradors, stretched out next to me. Together we spent this first night in a grave silence, and I was all afraid to move so as not to show them my discontent. They are dead, and I am alive - at least, I should rejoice that things are just like that.

Now they fit next to me and stick their hands under my T-shirt-they have cool, slightly slimy palms that press me to their bodies-and the guy behind me grinds my forehead between my shoulder blades, hoarsely exhaling someone, turning into an indiscriminate whisper