Book: Encyclopedia of myths. Page 1

- Nice all class - a game. Especially in the way.

Beer dense, solovet and, ultimately, fatter. If you itch to drink, let it be spirits. There's something about them honestly...

... every real mystery is hid from the curious not because someone want to keep it, and just because it can't be said aloud.

Insensitive there are no issues. There is only an inadequate response to the answers.

Not much to explain: it seems to me that some wonderful things from this deteriorate...

Later, as a rule, are never. Events that matter, happen on time, or not happen at all.

Every Paradise is a prison for someone who is unable to leave.

We all suddenly simultaneously learned that you should pretend to be clever, ironic, calculating, cold-blooded turystami. But... We are not quite the same?
- We are so, clear the stump. We - gentle, sentimental, sensitive, short-lived lumps of organic matter. We - terrible to say! - good. To admit it is extremely, indescribably ashamed. So we try not to give yourself even in small things. And the obvious mistake, is combusted with shame, turn our backs to the wall, lips - in the blood, teeth into crumbs. Unbearable!

... Shuddered, realizing that stupid little drunkard often derived from the best human material of great promise, who failed to come true. After that, probably a picture of self-destruction. In fact, every man - self-destructive design, just these guys she works in an intensive mode.

... Calm down. “Different” he is, well... you're You. Your blood poisoned me. I was quite happy with - what more do you want?

The world in which we live - a wonderful place; every man - not just a bipedal Primate, and tired and frustrated, but still powerful deity; every city is the sacred labyrinth; pesky conventions at any moment can be the rules of the game, difficult and dangerous, but very exciting, right?

For friendship also requires a kind of bodily intimacy. The words on the screen - as it is too fresh. It's all the same in the eyes have breath to hear.

Women are divided into those who can give birth to humans; those who can give birth to the monster; and those who can not produce anything, except at night. The first is usually fulfill your destiny and go back where you came, calm and desolate; the second always hesitant to accept such a fate and drowning in the maelstrom of his own dreams, and the existence of a third do not believe anybody, even themselves. But this does not matter: night still comes when its time comes...

There are things that I love, there are things that I hate, and sometimes they change places.