Author of quotes: Anna Rivelata

Dressed in black. Cry black. That is so Indian and so widow. All that different here except the eye color, but my deer, her cow. Well pinch my mouth with something, let's cut the invisible Krovostok, and can't lip - at least give me, the hell with it, his handkerchief. You don't know how I'm greedy, I could use a drink, ate you one, I would zamoras drank to the bottom, under the tongue, subcutaneously and intravenously, ruthlessly, fiercely, frankly. Only, apparently, Newton's third law honor you above other laws, and, therefore, with equal retaliatory force you always aspire to someone else's heart and somebody else called cute, and kiss someone's cow's eyes, and my already bleeding, I don't know how to close this wound, I don't know how much is left. I'm probably too early broken. I'm probably no longer stand. I might become a bloodless doll of white wax, silk and cold beads - or just all fall apart into endless letters these hysterical letters that fly, fly, like an arrow without a target, all fly, merging with the azure height, in amazing watercolors, fly between stars and planets, of course, and other amazing celestial bodies, all fly - and it will last forever.

There will be a day I will get used to you,
You'll get used to my men
And to painful thinness,
And to my tears without reason,
And the fact that I know a lot,
And the fact that I drink a lot,
That did not add up - subtract
His life.
Will be the day, we just have to survive.
Sitting on a gingerbread horse,
Blithely you will be able to hover
In the circles of the carousel star.
Will just love me.
Very simple.
And very late.

Our sun has so quickly passed the Zenith, like a love - butterfly-mayfly, living life for the day.

Starving on a jar with saline men's hearts. Not because a head in a jar is not crawls, - I have the silver fork on a long handle, and a pair of forceps wrapped with a sterile cotton swab to wipe his chin bloody brine. Just never, I can never bring myself to eat it. And they are already heartless, but still vulnerable, vulnerable and sensitive, squirming as oysters with splashes of lemon juice, scribble an anonymous letter on the line nights. And silence on the other end of the phone wire can only mean one thing: eat, my dear, I suffered, I gave you everything... And I'm hungry and all I want is bread and milk just from the hands of the person who is happy to love me. Want to laugh just because fun, not because nothing else is left. Want to fall asleep without fear that I will awaken with tears, hot as sulfuric acid. Such tears crying only men and only one unfulfilled desire. Be The Only One.

Sorry for all the incomprehensible good people, dealing each other mortal wounds, scary, saber-lasting, simply because they are human.

Remind me that the word - silver; and let your silver bullet will catch up with the remnants of me.

... We wish only the passion that only a tsunami, just tons and wagons, to full magazines to nuclear explosions and millions. And this person himself, inspire only pity and disgust ... because nobody can give more than has...

Freedom is something waiting for power, and get helplessness. Do not believe those who say that there is nothing sweeter. They don't know what they are looking for. They have searched, but not found. They have found, but have not yet realized that. They are still euphoric. Race on a motorcycle to soar like a bird, to be free of the hunter is not freedom. This is to get rid of one and purchase something else. Freedom is the cold of outer space. Not having anything at all. Not literally, and there, in your inner ocean, where you are drifting, naked, sleepless, breathless. There is a miles Davis plays for us "lift to the scaffold". Is there Malevich sends us an empty envelope. But for us mere mortals - we do not need to.

... And there, across a large ravine full to the top with wet black willows, huddled to each other houses, I find them beautiful. Especially one that is yellow, with a rusty iron roof, with two floors, tear-stained, he really would fit my needs. I would sit in a room on the second floor, wrapped in a gray shawl, and watched through the window of the wires running into the distance to an invisible point where all the way. And the room is clean and poor, and always on the watch, for example, half past eleven, and nowhere to go. On the window sill the dead fly, and drink goat's horns curled aloe. On the radio, no music, not even the news, and something. I think it should look like this hell, no sulfur and pans with fire.

Time is our prison. In moments alcohol of illumination it is especially clearly seen term limits in which he is confined. Here is birth, there is death, and everything in between is a path from wall to wall, and when you find out how many steps in the length of your jail cell, you're gone.

Life is a "Book of Blessings" Some people read it deeply and thoughtfully, others quickly and eagerly, others diagonally, and someone does understands nothing. We don't know who wrote it for us, who dedicates it to us, faceless, asleep in a cocoon of nothingness, who prepares us to magical, incomprehensible gift.

Possession is impossible by anyone or anything. No matter what a person sought, whatever's gained, whatever wanted with passion, this passion is always the same. To own. We want to have knowledge, power, authority, talent, money, each other, want to have a family, love, companionship. Anyway, do we get desired from birth, make some hard work, wait'll tearfully, hold on and grab it, catch up and take away, - we will not be able to own it for a long time. Life will keep us from loss to loss, poking in every nose: possession is impossible. Here, in this world, nothing can be ours, but ourselves. Our children grow up and leave us, our deeds will be forgotten, our love story will end. There's only one way to tolerate this state of Affairs once and for all to accustom themselves to the idea that everything given to us - in our possession, and enjoy it does today.

I live in a country unasked questions. Like a cat or there, rabbit. Almost everything I know about myself, from the mouths of others.

What seems to be some sort of pathological activity, in fact has a completely different nature. All these phantasmagoria, which is my life, is just the result of the fact that I almost never refuse nothing. Take everything that floats forward, indiscriminately. Give me a hand in anything, a train ticket, a wedding ring, a cock, a grenade with cotter pulled out. I promise to say thank you and use as directed.