I took all acesodynes I have in this house and the pain finally abated. Oh, while I was growing faint from my fever, I read deeply in my course papers in the hope that my emaciated mind gets all this phonetic peculiarities of northern british accents or types at least hundred words full of grief about Great Irish Famine..
In fact, I stopped near of Northumberland, when I catch sight of Les Miserables by Victor Hugo... and then Les Fleurs du Mal by Charles Baudelaire... Consequently, I ended up with reciting delectable lyrics of Provencal troubadours, which reminds me unique charm of French, reminds me heady days of childhood alighted with mischief, somehow, shade of a forest, riot of verdure, glaring sunlight and incredible colours of wild flowers. Obviously, I should spend more time on walking, I just wish there were more decent picturesque places to go.



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John William Waterhouse - Ophelia