baby to my beloved or how I ended up in the bunk
Every time I don’t know how to tell you when it’s quiet time, I often want to turn to you, otherwise I would like you, you and your open mouth, the Lord breaks his bones on the Smolensk stone, and you are the light and the reason for the short night, my knife is sharpened and you always have the right to everything, I deny the right (I’m an anarchist), but you have the right to everything, I write you the world, like a love story, in tiny little pieces that no one can understand, and every time