Author of quotes: Mikhail Borisovich Bar. Page 1

Saturday night...
Hopelessness
the smell of fried fish.

Here is the September...
Oh, the reluctance with which
crawls out of the pipe
emaciated during summer
smoke.

When the snow comes, the adults under it coming too, but each to his own, and small children running around with him. Therefore small children are a natural continuation of the ongoing snow, and the adults anymore. A small child leaves footprints in the snow three times or even four more than adults or even two adults. Adults are able to walk only one by one, and small children, as the snow is able to stick together in a huge heap, rassipautsya and again to form other, bigger, piles. Little children running under the snow, you can watch endlessly and adults... With rain and, by the way, the same story.

Razmarivaet the April sun, in contrast to the cold icy October and December, can fill the entire head with no residue. Thoughts if left, then turning inside and flying outside in the warm, like fresh milk, the air in the form of yellow, white or colorful butterflies, buzzing bumblebees hairy, sparkle mica wings of flies, tweeting birds, tirelessly crawl on you ants are at the fence of a large slumbering dog, walking around and around in a wife, introducing into the yard from the house a box of seedlings of Basil, to walk in the sun.

In the village there is no new year, but only a continuation of the old. Village time, unlike the city, not the multicolored scraps from different places ponderance and associated nodules Christmas show on TV, and endless, disasterarea thread, which, like Christmas garland, hanging everything - the boots, drying by the stove, and the stove, sopping wet and icy baby gloves, and summer cotton sundresses, and a winter sheepskin coat, and snow-covered dog house and the dog along with her nonsense, and two magpies on the roof of the shed, and a stack of new mown hay, and the snow, and a house with a chimney, and the smoke from the chimney, and christenings, and birthdays, and funerals, and a hundred and fifty for no reason, and even cricket, which is now bursting in the pleasant warmth of the heated stove, and in summer rang grasshopper and next winter will again be a cricket.

Declarations of love are often reminded time signals - they are valid only in the moment of speech.