piątek, 14 września 2012


 And then there is nothing left for me, than tell the stories abut the the river, which reaches the same overboard, how it cross the trend of standing water, not mixing with them. And it collects all, garbage, dead dogs, baits, little islands of hyacinths swept by the water, all of it is taken to the ocean, there is no time to sail, everything is  kidnapt by the deep bewildering storm.
 It goes without noise, dully, like a blood in the vains ...

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