[aswerqsr94]

What memories ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

do not want to meet

do not pretend that when brought together

only remember that moment,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], the spark

we burned his

you leave me a blessing

eyes the tears

not believe you are not embers of passion

heart

not despair Dare to see you



the dark night turned into ash

blowing in the wind



that you will light a

not you let me leave you cold

also because you know I



not you know I

Silence burning

you leave me lonely

only that that a puff of smoke gray



I want to know you



fast



really fast and I will burn out

together with the passion you gave me last



like you turned into ashes blowing in the wind

maybe we'll meet

but I have not had my

you do not You

the original look of deja vu that I will try to forget



fact,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], you already know that I was lonely

embodiment

combustion will achieved my paralysis



In fact,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], you already know everything is not already bound to the results of all

all meaningless





[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.