Either the world went mad or I, if the world, then it is needed to die, if I, then itself is necessary to rewrite, and herein books can help only, in them there is all force knowing philosophy, exactly that that needs me, I opened on your own many writers, genres, styles of different years, sizes and experience of letter. never á did not think, that will cry above the verses of Niokonova, will open on your own philosophy of subkul'tur, techniques of drawing and picture, and simply stories, about simply and not simple life of people and not people. I can not understand until now, how I could miss out that happiness which I searched right through life, I am a soviet only to that lives in me, love, though and not mutual, but love which actually part me, this man, my ideas aloud, too he prekraen, that to be alongside, or not. I cry, that from the character to be with one and only with one, I was not able in time to understand that is the real love and that it is not, now old I protso hate, but however nastol'giya pierces me to the tears, but I however want to return a that writer, that half me, those ideas which I rejected so easily, crying is not desirable even. tears it is a sign of weakness, I however will hang around, though next to you other, I will enjoy your eyes however, and tvey to talk a strange manner, which I was so enticed
by me began to read again, and opened you from other side of book, and you are wonderful!
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