Book: When butterfly wings get burned. Page 1

- Probably, all do not love autumn just because it reminds all of their own. Dying in this world, such a quick and shaky. Or because among all that bright, they feel empty inside.
And winter?
- A New year already, I almost forgot.
It will have to first look inside your shoes, pockets dark gray coat and my mother's pills. He's definitely in there somewhere was lost, lies, sad, crying, as if he someone had died. And he himself dies.
Comes.
Is my favorite holiday, I opened the window, sticking my head in snowflakes-snow-sea, closing her eyes against, like when you talked to me.
And my picks my friend, sniffles, squeezing. Often-often blinking, slowing the speed.
The wind braids my hair and wrists in a hard knot, and I am silent. Follow with their eyes the cloud of snow, ice, no more sugar. Look at the world from under lowered lashes, uzmetall sweaters and fears.