Book: Kootchie. Page 4

Heart aches? Let hurts, so be it.

Let me pour salted water in tataragasi beluba.

The pain of creation, in fact, a trifle, a trifle next to the agony of no-creation.

To forget thoughts and come out in the clear summer and long walk, more and more disappearing in the mist.

Late letter. Time will develop in the ice and hardens, will become a result and the source, in the endless station, which will nadisha Packed by evening frost: Late poems. Late. And you're late.

But invariably closer to God usual poems of the living.

Drop accounts, keys, pills, set, half a century later, the dreams, the mind that is essentially a cage, those days that at the root of emptiness.

You'll sit next to. Life with one touch. You smile. Death in a single stroke. And our time will be in silence, which makes more sense than in words.

I continue mustard sunset, beautiful and cold, I - Feb.

Let the memory of us will be better than ever we.

Loneliness is age. Not described in our books.

We disappear without even noticing.

She loved people, she lit them star.

You comprehend the science of silence.