I sit in the kitchen, crashing with the four-battery (from the battle of the clones very worthy, although overwhelmed by me many times, but in the glorious battle of the beats of the crawling), parallel to the spark of fire in the ashes. On his knees. Suddenly, the spark crashes to the side and fires the wool on a mouthpiece. She jumps, shuts down the light, looks at me, sits on the hose and sits in it. And you won’t even punish, because it’s really fair. Topo was washed.