a day produced scrappy impressions, as if each hour was torn off a leaf or a fiery page burnt. the list of purchases as follows: pastes, flowers, 8 women.

in childhood i never could understand why in books the process of weeping so strangely is described: in the nose, in the eyes. tears flowed frequently, as if they were always on call, it was worthwhile only to strain our cheeks - if you please, the necessary water level in the ocean. now exactly it pinches, splits. apparently, with the years everything has more salt, the splinters of cockleshells, and other nonsense.

with deep night along the roads drive other automobiles. you will look, it occurred, you think. you will count to three villages. what they do make there? dying from pride, they cut along uninhabited streets, right and left pressing imagery. they arrive in us to plough, they pass into measurements and ominous blinking of headlights, dropping behind its angularity, deliberately, slowly.

but sounds still at night are carried, the ordered columns of greyskies sometimes appear, or the wedge of sprinkler machines. at night simply fairy tales are created on the roads, like cosmetic catalogs with this slogan: “night protects your youth!” so much in the sense it is possible to wind, by nights generally heaven knows which occurs.

how often about them she wrote, and what stuff with which to make a basic view! they stand, they drink by evenings, limply they fight, a little they sleep on the benches and again they stand. they are occupied with the matter. carriages in the morning entrust  them, and the picture becomes touching, many-colored.

in peasants with bottles the children always sleep. i suspect how much they will say under any conditions. squadron of carriages, next infantry. they guard the coin before the wine division. but you pass by - healthy, pink-cheeked, with the billowing arms of life, complete diverse miracles, and the child in your carriage requires something according to the complete program. it is this you cry.

the remarkable door in the entrance was placed by one of many numerous ladies. it lives upstairs with the cold, exactly from the side of the street. these mothers are sometimes such jokers. among those despised by experts are slips of the tongue in small packets with the taste of freshly cut grass. completely lotus, creators assured … typical mint haze above the grown bald field, the brushwood of wild strawberries under the iron feet, the prickly wall of honeysuckle before the forest. milk, of course, in the can with a greenish nuance, high with the thistle, small near the beds, with dense heaps on the furrows. it sprinkles any thought, picture and focus without the face. love is not an image. foolish adults will vulgarize what any child understands easily in the grass, the fear that nothing will ever be so thoroughly stimulating as the love and hate of dreams.

i obtained suddenly in midnight three floors of Indian pastry. it is more reliable than the world. each subsequent moment you involuntarily compare, crumbling in the sesame, painting in gay colors and seasoning. everything is in the flavor of the moment. how much i remember, i am always spilled a little. and where do i absent myself at night?