Book: A light Breakfast in the shadow of the Necropolis

Nobody cares about people who wish to take the first call.

... We are passionate creatures, have eight hours to cuddle up to each other's body, otherwise we are cold and lonely. Otherwise, we lose the necessity of our existence. I doubt that we need someone in the morning, so greedily hugging all night, warming to that hope. We cynics in the afternoon, we quizzically look at feelings. We lapped like planks, and really need each other to live only as we live. We revolve, as the wheels of a clock, ticking at each other. "Tik". - "So". "So what?" "So!"We only love ourselves in each other, we love this life as a reflection of our being. We kiss each other, like a mirror, because the Apple of Paradise is once again becoming whole when we are connected, and the wormhole is hiding inside us, when they unite two halves."This tick?" - "Tick". "As for you, okay?" "So!"

Schizophrenia - a light cold from the bouquet of blonde. A blond woman we had a competition - who gets in a psychiatric hospital. And divorced two years later with a draw: "whore" is "idiot".

Young girls need to speak the truth. Then they are properly attuned to the situation. Experienced women need to lie because the truth is they long ago tired of.

... Man commits good deeds without thinking of the woman every time you have to persuade. Like, do a good deed - give...

Some people know how to make money, others to spend. I belong to the third category. Earn not want to spend money unnecessarily on books, beer and women. All slips through our fingers. Literally. It is enough to undo with your fingers fly. This applies mainly to beer and women, and books - just other people's thoughts, which will never be yours. Three shots into the air. Beer in the toilet, cum in the condom, books on the shelves.

When a woman says she's a nasty bitch and a bitch - she's obviously flirting...

To forever love a woman, to live with her on a desert island.

Last time I spoke to the doctor about mild cold. My God, he looked through schizophrenia!

Who writes her script? - I thought. She seems to have learned his role, and I need a breather. My God, what's my next line?

Coffee at the bar tried to cook Turkish; I looked in his Cup of coffee and is also trying to establish his nationality. Most likely coffee was black, but not a Turk.

I was walking on the upper deck and from time to time glanced at the cormorant, who was lazily chasing an Apple core at the stern. I was tempted to spit at him from the irritation that the cormorant be sluggish and not romantic.