Oh, how lovely to go for mushrooms, tiruliru tiruleru.
I feet very muddy and the spade soap, my face looks very sleepless I pity the dog.
Like every autumn festival is approaching, and I will wear in bad mood and my body will enter the next quarter century, wearing a wet and mossy patina.
Meanwhile scratch lard fossil dig in sediments human decades, killing flies insidiatesi nests among the ravines and the fixtures, eliminate hairballs by discharges slay whole hordes of butterflies.
We are now free to suck. We can put your nose in the rancid and just puffing. Nothing scares us, not even the waste of others left to hang for months among insects.
We're big. We're old. We aged. We still someone
among the dry leaves, but not find him.
Perhaps then we will pause to look back and there will not even cry.
