Book: Terrace in Rome

The closer retirement is, the more difficult for us to separate ourselves from the environment. Our skin dubit wind, stretch the years, worn by fatigue and enjoyment, and the particles, along with the hair, tears, fingernails and saliva falling to the ground, just dry leaves or broken blade of grass, opening the soul more and more coming out of the decaying body. And her last takeoff is nothing like the final spray.

Women living in this world often contain a bad memory.

Even a liar never tells a lie to the end.

In forty years Mom said that counted for his life eight ecstasies. One of his Roman assistant who wanted to know what this ecstasy, he said, "the Vision, the memory, the picture painted by Claude gellet, donated to them in 1651 and depicts the Holy Paulo in Otiscom port; next, a young girl in the harbour of Bruges, on the background of the ships." Then he fell silent and withdrew into himself. Of the seven ecstasies he called only four.

Everybody follows the wave of darkness, in which he was destined to die.