Саша Македонский - Чтец - текст песни, слова, перевод, видео

Well, why are you silent? Tell me how you sit for hours behind a glass of ice and sambuca, killing the boredom with another cheap book about someone else's life and separation. As they convey from hand to hand what I really wanted to read, what is really tasty, what can be absorbed under the forty -grade of tequila or a glass of red lambrusco. Expect how new pages crunch, how the heroes of your novel go to rest in Cannes or Nice or Yalta , where the neighbor's daughter, the mischievous, pretending to be a gypsy-gadalka, powder the brains of passers-by, like a tan laid an uneven mask on her pale skin. And as a local boy, more like a ragged man, a spindle rolled into her serene being.

And now ... you ... already completely forgetting about your played solidity, you pull one in one cigarettes from a pack with the mediocre name Marlboro. Looking at the calling phone, you immediately come up with another ridiculous alibi for yourself, just to have an hour to break in this coffee shop forgotten by God, which is brighter for you than Frankfurt on Maine or Embankment in Vienna.

The place where you leave your naked, fat reality, empty, and plunge in the driven workshop, painted with oil paints on ordinary gray canvases with wooden frames, on which each smear and new strip, you can lose, without unnecessary words and without unnecessary words and cheap show -offs. In the silence, where only you are the listener, where only you are ready to live with the heroes, they are at the same time simple and complex lives, where you can not be afraid to cross the border without thinking about a visa.

Tell me about those who, sitting nearby, drinks Americano without milk, and looks at you, like an asshole or a fool. The fact that even for a quarter without knowing you is slightly grinning, from afar, pointing a finger at a thin young man-prostoca who also looks at you from under the ceiling, pouring tea on a white tablecloth.

About those who are aimlessly locked ... in yellow, red and green bills, who do not see the numbers on the price tags and wagons of the brown with number 777 and the letters of the ECH and those who are strange, but even in the summer of fur. More about those who hide their secrets in beautiful hotels behind dense curtains, catching without fishing lines, on a gilded hook of those who are sitting at the next table and sipping cherry juice, for no reason.

About what we all are always silent about. About the void of 80 percent of people, about the fact that the officer at the rack of the bar is a hidden gay, about the fact that under the Soviet space, parents were more fun, about a lonel from a loner tearing four children, about the fact that you, as before, are afraid of snakes .. and Bogomolov, and the girl at the table on the left does not lift from the insulin injections ...

Each has its own truth and its own head, and, for someone, all this is truth, for someone rumor, empty chatter and an incomprehensible set of sounds that some boy wrote out, so as not to die from boredom or take their hands. ..

And here he is, the last sip of sambuca, the last page. The story is over. It's time to change the characters.

muses. Brian Crain - A Simple Life