I have no reason for tears. Because of loneliness

0lnwb791

Thank you ever loved me,
Thank you for letting me know, and love, really is a kind of tolerance!
have dreams, they want to pursue, expand the freedom of the wings, the world gather under the wings. Freedom is always associated with dreams, and reality for him, even the smallest dream, also need to pay hundreds of effort, be possible, welcome to the joy of the sun
get your message out, I would Start silence in memory of falling in love with you. Looking back that smile, a kiss that there are deep-seated that deep feeling of love like an ocean, always in the night fell,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], in my lonely bedroom room,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], shuttle back and forth, repeatedly beating my heart.
empty night, I have no reason for tears. Because of loneliness, I opened the last message you left, softly, almost recite every word of those who read the text, but my mind was not the slightest sketch of your appearance. As still in love, I repeated all of you have liked to listen to the songs, but can not remember when we in the end is love. There is no reason to read the sound of your name,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], while barbed heart pain, enough to take my breath at the moment, the pain will follow.
had someone say that love will not agree if you have friends, because my heart is still a desire to restore that once belonged to his love. No one's love is not the test again and again and in their experience, no one's love will flow like springs as seamless and smooth, perhaps, our request is not much, just want to use the most simple way to happiness for the most simple, can be Because of this, just like being more difficult.
there is a tear is in my heart, there is a love is not left behind, there is a regret is a lifetime, there is a guilt because you stead; have a voice miss you, have a heart for your existence, there is a poem written for you, there is a man in love with you.
not remember you for how many times my tears flow, and can not remember how many times you hold me say the same thing: I really left you,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], left you can use your life to love me, then I am afraid that no one can be more ruthless than I am, I am afraid no more than me silly. Heart is a door,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], love is a petty, petty love is the key to open, and I confused the keys to break, and shut ourselves in a world of sentient beings without love, this time, who would than I more loneliness? Falling Maple Leaf
passage of time, you are afraid of youth is gone ... ...
time we do not know love, when we know when love is over. Come to realize that day was so fast, breaking up all the words yet had time to talk, blink time ... ... has become a lie. In fact,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I can not remember the days you live with in those fragmented pieces of memory chip, the only thing I could find only your good, your good sincere man I've ever seen, no one can be compared, And your smile is the most brilliant.
Although now, we no longer together, but I will not allow any person in front of me in the slightest that you are not. Why? Because you told me that the last sentence: I do not hate you my dear, I forgive you. I never thought you would like a word I said, your tolerance for my selfishness seem so degrading, and your kindness to my heart even more guilt. If love is really only understand only after the separation, I hate only they do not understand love, love ... ...
do not understand each other without a care in the day, remember to take care of themselves, which take care of your teeth rare, good, pure heart, he lets me know, and love, is a kind of tolerance! ! !

[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.