string bag

Anshe




I just woke up in the recent twenty-eight, no prince, no witches in his crystal coffin,
with the remains of eatables among avosek mouse, in which for the life of all distribute at random.
Some blog, aspiring diploma piece, bits of books, stishkovy unwanted press,
under the samples below - my compass that always broken, which started in the dense forest neprintsessu

. One of avosek hanging on the phalanges of the summer, as the long-beskozhego, rotten to the bone - ties, it seems, from the wedding corset, like shabby harness for horses
. And the thin blade, slightly polosnuvshi grid shines sharp sideways reminded narrow bridge,
where someone violently railing compared with a tape measure, and in the back with unclean pushed the graveyard.

On that day, weather-beaten boat fisherman supernatural, bream and cupids fished under the bridge,
dropping a cigarette butt from the bridge, but in fishing claws - and the string bag again ... But in general I'm not about
. Do not become a poet, actress, diplomat, but tasty cooked borscht I'm in my coffin,
shopping bags carried, sometimes cursing obscenities, cover with shiny drops on his forehead.

Bitten apples, mirrors, those that lie shamelessly, illuminated films, lost passports - this twist in what can be a lifetime sums up, trembling under the chimes of crystal strangers coffins ...
And how avosek hanging in the caves with trash? Do not slouch severity - and explicitness of hell
. Why I woke up in the flowering twenty-eight? I used to go back to sleep until seventy-seven ...

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