I stood next to the club and a couple came out. He is a slope of a metre under two, all in gold, on pants, in sunglasses (it's at 2 o'clock at night). She is a fifa in fear and with lips on half the face. The straw approaches the flower, begins to pull flowers. A smoking boy approaches him:

I’t touch those flowers.

The bread is broken, you are not asked.

But...

Dry up, he said!! to

–...

Zhlob pulls a huge grasp of his passion, and with enthusiasm whispers something like “You are so romantic!!!” and bury in the flowers with their destruction. Then he turns to the boy:

You don’t understand romanticism. Do not lie down! The flowers are sorry!! to

- No, I just tried to say that there is constantly being removed from the doorstep...