Character: Miranda Gray. Page 3

- All men are scoundrels.
I replied, just meaner that they are able to smile, admitting it.

He is so ordinary that makes it extraordinary.

He even told me he loved me. And I said, you do not love me, and your love. It's not love, it is selfishness. Do you think it is not about me, but about what you feel about me.

They are all the same, these adults. And not sons, not daughters-teenagers - are different. We are not different, we're just young. Is present adults are not the same as before: struggling to prove that is still young, wriggle, trying to live our lives. Stupid, hopeless. Can't they be like us. We don't want that. We don't want them dressed like us, talked like us, lived the same interests. Adults before we foolishly imitate - it is impossible to treat them with respect.

- I need you. Not just that, the other... you sometimes such a view. Bit.
- What?
- Opinion of the woman you will someday become.
- Good women?
- A lot better than just good.

Strangely, we sat in silence, facing each other, and I have a feeling not for the first time, some inexplicable closeness, not love, not sympathy, no. But the alignment of fate. Like a castaway on a piece of land... no, on a raft... alone. Against his will, but the two of us. Together.

He is the embodiment of ugliness. But mental deformity will not break.

Sex full part of life, the nature of the activities, the same activities as any other. There is nothing shameful, dirty, just two give each other their bodies. It's like a dance. As game.

... He spoke contemptuously about jobs, about how they live. They are not people, and animals, he said, because they are forced to eke out an animal existence. And David Evans, when they all almost lost the gift of speech, growling, don't you dare tell me that my father's an animal, and I have to chase kicks him out of the way. As C. W. said, I have never in my life did not hit the animal, but the person to strike is always a reason. But people who are forced to live like animals, deserve the deepest sympathy.

All day I write the sky. Just put a line a few inches from the bottom edge. This is the earth. And don't think about anything except the sky. The June sky. December. August. In the spring rain. In zips. At the dawn of the. In the twilight. Wrote about heaven. Only the sky, nothing more. Simple a - line, and above it the sky.

Diary boosts vanity. Write what you want to hear about themselves.

To live, to absorb the world, to know him, to gain impressions and experience.

I just despise him, to hate.

Hated the tyranny of the weak.