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Суббота, 18.05.2024, 08:47 |
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Twenty-First. Night. Monday Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing - who knows why - made up the tale that love exists on earth. People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love. But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down... I found this out by accident and now it seems I'm sick all the time. |