Текст песни Раз-два-три, ветер изменится - Глава 5 отрывок 5

This is not one lost Sunday, not one missed hike in the church is a twenty-one day, which I resolutely strike out my life, knowing the joy of living together. Curiously, but no one is doing to the fact that I decide to live a civil marriage with two corpses: my headman does not break down the phone in trying to find out why I stopped going to classes, Jack Crawford does not call me to the exhibition of victims of violence. Although if the exhibit was added there, I would know about it first: he would have come to my door to witness his reverence of what I had not done anything once again. I am not interested in nor FBI, nor psychiatric clinics, nor doctor lecture - in a word, nobody - and at this time I'm going in an amazing journey along Kedron.

I think I can reveal this secret to you, if only because Burtolucci will reveal it thirty years later. So, two corpses and me. We are together breakfast, together reading books, occasionally watch TV. We never argue because they obviously have no opinion about the aggressive state policy in international relations, besides, they do not particularly complain the results of Horton experiments, so we just sit down for hours, staring at each other while they recalculate His insides. What time can be carried out with less benefit.
In all this relaxing holiday from routine classes at the Academy there are a couple of minuses. First, the smell. I easily not notice it for the first week, it seems to me ridiculous and impolite to find fault in dead people with claims that they would have to use cologne. However, on the outcome 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 reluctance to remain alone. I can't get out of the room - they go after me, I can't go to the toilet - they are standing near, I can't read - they sit in a semicircle. They roam me like lost dogs, and occasionally stretch your hands, touching my knee.
And, thirdly - the key element of Suspense, - Nights.

We sleep together.
Do not condemn me. I honestly tried to stay on the bed one, I knocked them, I squealed, I cried, I begged them, I asked, I knew, but they laid the night at night with me: one behind his back, in front of her face. And under three nights, I watched in other people's eyes covered with a whitish film, as if lay with my girlfriend, and was afraid to sleep. Because who knows that the corpses can make 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 a coffee, but for some reason I am lying in the bath and look into the ceiling. Here I am reading a book, but I sit, locked in the closet, and the sleeve of the shirt, trying not to slope. Here I am writing some kind of abstract, but I griely from the hand of the skin strips and, closing so much that there are multi-colored circles under the centuries, trying to forget about the existence of my neighbors.
Therefore, for the fourth day, I was unimusted with a surrender: I lay down on the bed, and they, as good Labradors, stretched out next to me. We spent this first night together in the coffin of silence, and I was all afraid to move to not tell them my discontent. They are dead, and I am alive - at least, I should be glad that things are so.
Now they are stacked next to me and encourage hands under my shirt - they have cool, slightly smoky palms that press me to their bodies, - and the guy behind me will catch up with my forehead between my blades, hoarsely exhausted someone's name, turning into an ineffable whisper