Anatoly Mariengof. Cynics (№ 413278)

I don't have to say to myself anymore, "Do I love Olga?"
If a man today for his beloved smears petroleum jelly on the edge of the cliché tip, and nazavtpa freezes with an armful of poz at the electric call of her two - he does not need to ask himself stupid questions.
Love, which is not strangled by the intestine from the enema, is immortal.