Book: Eleven minutes. Page 1

Now that had nothing to lose, she found freedom.

Don't ask me : "Why me? What makes me special?" Oh, nothing, nothing that I could explain at least to yourself. But - and this is the mystery of life - I am not able to think about anything else.

... the session lasts 45 minutes and if you subtract the time involves dressing and undressing, insincere affection, exchange platitudes, then clean the sex will be only eleven minutes.

I just love it, mentally to be with him and decorate this beautiful city of his affection, his words, the sound of his own footsteps...

The pain and anguish justifies the fact that should bring only joy, love.

No one wants to suffer, yet everyone is looking for the pain and sacrifice, and finding, I feel that their existence is justified...

She could already afford to buy books, but continued to visit the library, turned into a bridge that connected it with the real world, is the strongest and most durable bridge.

I have to write about love. I have to think, to think, to write and write about love - otherwise, the soul will not stand, will fail.

Paris remains Paris.
No, this is not a tour guide from a travel Agency. It's not a taxi driver. Her legs buckled when the voice came.
Paris remains Paris?

- All right, - he said. - You've come to the right place wanted to come.
I don't want chocolate, I want wine. And want to go down to our room, where the scattered books and a fireplace.
How does it impact like itself - "our room"? Not that she had planned.

Again he filled his glass and said, as if incidentally:
- I need you.

Nothing to do with eleven minutes.
What?
- I love you.
And I love you.
- I'm sorry. I don't know what to say.
And I don't know.

In the end, we are all born with a consciousness of guilt, fear when happiness is something quite possible and we die wanting to punish others because life felt powerless, unhappy and not appreciated.

Life likes to pile on the gloom to then brighter to Shine his light side.