Раз-два-три, ветер изменится - Глава 9 отрывок 3 - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

It was not customary to celebrate the holidays at my house, if only because it demanded for a couple of hours a happy family and pretend that you are glad to gifts found in the store “All for the dollar”. My father believed that if you want to spend his money earned on a ten -hour shift, during which he had blood from the nose from tension, at least you have to earn it. My mother and I were not suitable candidates in order to squandering our huge inheritance by Cavendish, so we usually cost our own. Mom baked cookies with cloves: you wake up in the morning, behind the window-snowdrifts, and under the blanket heating and heat; Behind the door it smells of cinnamon and dough with honey, and you lazily crawl out of the bed, brush your teeth, go down the creaky stairs (four steps, and then freeze, looking into the air in which dust dust spin), mom smiles and gives you a glass of milk. There was never a Christmas tree at home, but there were spruce paws hung over the doors so that there was a coniferous smell in the rooms. Imitation of the family, imitation of Christmas, not a single one or less honest feeling, only on the twenty-first of December I still decide that I need to do this for Hannibal.

Not at all because I want to make it part of my family, no, my case was not so launched - I wanted it to enter the office, like six years I entered the living room, inhaled the tart smell and felt ... that I am grateful to him. For what he does for me. Such a Christmas gift with a deep philosophical meaning, the sponsor of which was my empty wallet.

In Baltimore in winter, everything is dying out, because people driven by a reasonable instinct to breed and multiply, move closer to the warm coast, and there are exceptionally lonely lucky ones in the city, who did not choose a house on the sandy shore, but an apartment that surrendered with a granny dumbfounded by Alzheimer .

The market was located next to the city hall building: a plot of twenty by twenty with frail branches stuck through the rods fenced with a grid. This is Baltimore, a girl, Maryland: here are Christmas trees who, opening their green raincoats, offer to stay happy for at least five minutes, so they are worse than with pedophiles in prisons. They are trampled with their feet, they are cut off the tops, they are opened, they are sawn, they are ripped off and sold at thirty dollars at the exit, because rejoicing life is a shame. Worthy people hate themselves.