< Inna Spring
The tape is full of news, bitter coffee ... the early morning brisk tits dispersing, brand crane cherish. Catgut evil rain seam that from the inside, inner, hastily fastened ruins ... Love? Or maybe just ... just have pity. Those eyes of Christ, as the embers of the fires, the ones that burned the world of the past, erecting the Temple. In it was a completely rashristanny our heavenly space, one that lift the gates, hiding from the rain. Eternal life ... Flour mill into flour milled, and the wheel rotates, sim cutting path. It's just seems that I am calling for no reason - a reason to split up, crumbling, aims to drop mercury. Only to look at ... But vyaznu in Marsh unnecessary words. Are you all happy. Cinema. The mountains around the river ... And melteshat banality in dresses of the foundations of your life today, where the line-by-line written a new story ... It is a pity that in the frame makeup, new clothes Pierrette, d'Orsay shoes ... I smile sweetly, but we will talk. Of course we talk. It's only in the morning everyone - in its own museum.