Book: Landscape painted with tea. Page 1

Years, like days and months with no end.

Our hunger is ourselves, and our satiety - this is not us.

It was raining, stood a dreary time, when women from one dream out there to kill someone.

So sing about something more important than life, memories, death, sing, referring to someone who is able one with his eyes update someone else's life.

Love takes up exactly as much space as it leaves the hatred, quite like a glass of wine, where space for the water as much as wine drinking. And if hatred lies deep - lying finely love.

Our thoughts are like hunger - is always the same.

When life is turned upside down, a precipice under our feet becomes the sky.

The lucky ones who loved at least once. At least the book, if not a dog or a cat, at least the writer, if not his wife.

Just as there are talented and untalented writers, there are exactly the same and the readers are gifted and talented.

Critics similar to medical students: they always believe that the writer suffers from the same disease that they are currently studying.
The writer always sick of one disease: disease krestoslovitsa. To cross words. Multiply them by two. What is, in fact, the book as not a collection of good crossed words?

Those who loved you before you were successful, after the success will not love you. Fame and success people do not forgive.

We are different madness people.

How many centuries most of the American men losing virginity to black women, and in Europe, especially in the South-Eastern part, made with Roma women to sin. Bless, Lord, the Gypsy women and black women. After all, it's a good thing to devote some female affection boy, who need love like bread. With them lose the innocence of those who are not loved and never will love.

All women aspire to the same men and the same is avoided. One love three times - as sons, as husbands and as fathers, and others who never loved her, not love nor wife, nor daughter. It is - like the pigeon who eat and nasty at the same time..