is the best way to

0lnwb791

,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]
TAG Tags: love pain like wandering

( Editor : Sammy)
love a person very tired Sometimes I feel lost
feel is their best release
is the best way to
anesthesia own brand of the forgotten but not so deep
This is so easy to forget the passage of

Perhaps love is to let us live in pain

wandering back and forth in the memory like we love each other too but

; but not really a lot of concerns come together
strange to meet late

can not be together even if we clearly know that my heart always cared about you in

perfectly justifiable ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], if not with your hand
can talk about anything we can do a friend,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], you say it? When you encounter difficulties
I always wanted to do everything to help you
do not care about who owes who hearts forever
Maybe everyone will have such a special friend
but The one I like you

in the world to spend a minute to love someone ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but but the whole life

love to forget the more true the more Shentong

life is always difficult to calm always hard to forget when you firmly in the mind
really so hard to give up is even harder to forget a person like really good
pain

time to forget the time I only miss you more
only let me once again being affected by piercing torture
like how wonderful love is perhaps how sad
True love is their left to their own memories of a beautiful

brewed their own drink a cup of bitter
own no matter how tough can drink

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box--
"We shall see some more of them by-and-by."
"More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked.
"There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm."
We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane.
I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts.