Author of quotes: Vera Polozkova. Page 4

Those who would like you loves those who hates you very, all not talking about you at all, they talk about some way separate from you existing, unrelated to the biography or to the lyric hero to you, to anyone at all. And you realize that it's pretty pointless and leads to a great frustration in people.

A year later you accidentally bump into in the city somewhere and find yourself four times more alien than in the first meeting.

The joy of growing up: there is no exhausting the need to make excuses for anything; finally allow people to be anything, even displeased with you ; even you can not tolerate organically. Let them; everyone has their own optics; in someone's microscope, you are a worm in someone's telescope you are God, in the sight of someone's rifle you're the enemy - it means nothing except that someone likes to look through a microscope, some telescopes, and someone- in the sight ; it's has not the slightest...

And yet - there is no ultimate Happiness and Prosperity. Lisa is the worst. Even if a woman meets the man of her life - Ah, Yes, the Man of My Life, Lisa, she lives with him for two years, or three, or five, and the first stop of his want, because you never want that here with you all the time, then they start to fight, so at least something was happening, and then be jealous of each other, then it makes sense, then children grow up and cheer - lease, count, happy, mutual love is also a big test how long the calm - you have one extracted, recovered from around the world, you together? Well, okay, travel. Well, thump. Well, anything there. But nothing happens Crazy, Lisa, but we can not train without it. Well, everything. Quarrel, reconciliation, sex on major holidays - er, Lisa, the terrible thing. Even if It is! The Right One! Lisa, "got married, lived happily and died in one day" - it is not the word save, it's just really nothing to say. All the six hundred pages each other in a month conquered, and then married, and the remaining forty years nothing happens, Lisa, and this hung as well as from belubula. There is no ultimate happiness, as long as you live. You wanted a house, bought a house, and two years later you're bored in it, as it was in the previous one; and you will never be satisfied. My problem is that I even more it all gets in the shortest time possible - happiness in alternation, Lisa, right, my friend Sergey Gavrilov, "when one wants a woman when a woman wants to kick her out nafig and to live freely". And it's not too Scary and not Hopeless and does not Negate the Possibility of Happiness - no, that's life, that's life, Lisa, so much manages to happen, you wonder. Nothing fatal. You can live at all with anything. With anything, Lisa. The man is tenacious, adaptive, nimble creature damn, no Love for Life, no Incompatible with Life Experiences - all are ground, Lisa, so fast that it becomes really uncomfortable then because we then threw a hell, nightmare and anguish.

- You freaked out, babe.
- Don't flatter yourself. For the "baby" should be killed, of course.
- Well, no, you never know what it can be you frightened. And lips are blue too, you never know why. Maybe you walked in here decisive, and he came and suddenly realized that you still love me. There is nothing not depend on me, baby.
- You bastard. Yes, I came, I found the arrogant fool in place of his boy, and now feel the horror. Chilling. Well?

I am your puppy: I whine, I poked in the shoulder blind
Rush to the sound of a kiss, timbre - that bottomless darkness;
I'm your stupid penguin, timidly hiding I
My body rocks warm your hands;
I cartographer your eyes - the Atlantic, cheek - steppe,
And the head - Arctic circle: the ice; nepoemaniehanepoemanie's inepoemanie.
I'm a scientist: I infected Bastable.
Teledevices.
You get a fish bone in my throat - like, here I am.
Tear retina me as a paving hammer platoon.
And - eleventh martora I'm an animal
Someone basely wounded in the stomach.

He calls, he has a bad day or his stubble scribe: "I found the bench acorn, now, and by the way I love you." These songs, "now I'm all yours", "well, you hang in there".
All the treasures. Will not believe, but they will last you for a life.

I all of bronze: and the profile, and the shoulder.
I'm still soft after, beefy, stupid.
God forbid you never know what
I've been thinking, falling asleep.

Have you got your remote from me. All of the buttons.
Body - chrome, eye - like system of prisms.
You live in my skull.
There is now a complete absolutism.

The anesthetic turns into a vegetable,
He seems to be alive, and the brain out of you emerged.
An hour ride on the bed of pain, howl,
Crawls to the kitchen, looking for its antispasmodic -
Popolam oppression, as if lowered ceiling -
Here found him quickly in the stomach has rastrac
And water drinking. And it does not subside,
All mangle you, pulse, flour duration,
If it is the soul, or karma, your bad
Or God knows what else inside it hurts.

Remember that neither a foreign war nor a bad rumor,
No evil infirmity, hungry like the wolf -
Nothing worse than the prison of your head
Never gonna happen...

And no one hanging around his neck,
well, except for the cross on the lace.
This cross is beating me in the cheekbone when he's on top, and finely spinning on the fly.
He laughs
and clamps it in his mouth.

Little Mook, you have the eye - peyote.
Sunny psychedelic, layered, needle.
Watch and know this will kill me.
This I most likely will finish.

Summer is creeping with July as yeast
Test. Face black as road bitumen.
Not so much the aching bitterness for the dead,
How dreary hatred alive.