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...