dirt [Theme] Page 14

The girl was raped. The body was found - gnarled fingers dug into the dirt. Crumple the paper, fingers dug into the paper. The smell of ink: Lord, as the obsessive things exist today!

Around mighty mud. It is like razevshiysya pig, grunting and snuffling.

And the river of history. Generation after generation has left more dirt in her direction. And the sky is still on.

Any infection, the rot and darkness tend to grow and multiply by themselves, obeying their inner cycle. And once the process passes a certain specific stage, there is no stopping it. Even if the man himself wants it.

How much in life dirt - pellets from the eraser, coffee grounds sleeps, dead wasps, dead between the window frames... Sometimes it seems that all the time, a person, a woman, at least, is spent on redistribution, to carry objects from place to place, as rubbish as they used to say her mother, there is only matter, lying not in his place.

The dirt under the feet of the bums cleaner than the false sweet words.

What a pity, but nothing is sacred in the world.
And even love, now just a wrapper,
Which can wrap any crap.

I like the autumn, when it will certainly rain, there are wet bare statues, and they certainly stick black leaves, and nevymoschena earth, normal, natural, are dark yellow leaves and cover with dirt.

To wallow in the mud fun as long as you know what you're gonna have a hot bath, but to wallow in the dirt when ahead of you all the same dirt - this is not funny.

Wash away dirt a lot easier than blood.

People need to live with a clear conscience. If you go the direct route, then sooner or later fall into the mud. But if you do not surrender and move on, one day the mud will dry and fall off.

- What kind of crap?
- Cellophane. You have no idea how many germs on peoples hands.
- What are germs?
- You don't know.

Sometimes, when the sky is so gray - gray perfectly possible to say that the negation of the very idea of colors and hunched millions look up, is hard to distinguish the air from the defects of vision, like all those floating up and down soft curls grit are part of the elements - rain, spores, tears, film, dirt. Perhaps, in such moments, the sky is just the sum of the filth that has accumulated in our eyes.

Angels don't belong in the mud. Flap your wings and fly away.