Текст песни Саша Македонский - Чтец

Why are you silent? Tell me how you sit for hours in a glass of ice and sambuca, Killing boredom with another cheap book about someone else's life and separation. How to pass from hand to hand what I really wanted to read, what is really tasty, What you can soak up with forty tequila or a glass of red Lambrusco. Tell me how the new pages crunch, how the heroes of your novel go to rest in Cannes or Nice or Yalta , where the neighbor’s daughter, a mischievous woman, pretending to be a gypsy fortune-teller, powders the brains of passers-by, like a tan lying with an uneven mask on her pale skin. And as a local boy, more like a ragged woman, spindle rolls into her serene being.
And now ... you ... having completely forgotten about your simulated solidity, you pull one by one cigarettes from a pack with the mediocre name of Marlboro. Looking at the ringing phone, you immediately come up with another ridiculous alibi for yourself, just to spend another hour in this forgotten coffeehouse, which is brighter for you than Frankfurt am Main or the embankment in Vienna.
A place where you leave your bare, greasy reality, empty, and plunge into the workshop you just painted with oil paints on ordinary gray canvases with wooden frames, on which each brushstroke and new strip can be lost on your own, without further ado and cheap show-offs. In silence, where only you are a listener, where only you are ready to live with the heroes, their simple and complex lives, where you can be afraid to cross the border without thinking about a visa.
Tell about those who, sitting next to them, drink Americano without milk, and look at you as an asshole or a fool. The fact that even for a quarter not knowing you, he smirks slightly, from afar, pointing his finger at a thin young man who also looks at you from the ceiling, spilling tea on a white tablecloth.
About those who are aimlessly locked ... in yellow, red and green banknotes, who do not see further the numbers on the price tags and brown carts with the number 777 and the letters ECX and those who, weirdly, even in summer, wear furs. About those who hide their secrets in beautiful hotels behind thick curtains, catch without fishing line, on a gilded hook 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 the people, that the waiter guy at the bar is a hidden gay, that in Soviet times parents were happier to live in, about a single neighbor raising four children, that you, as before, are afraid of snakes .. and the mantis, and the girl at the table on the left does not go off with insulin injections ...
Each has its own truth and its own head, and for some it is all true, for some it is a rumor, empty chatter and an incomprehensible set of sounds that some boy wrote out, so as not to die out of boredom or take something in his 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