The interiors - perhaps you can barely notice it - shrink into an increasingly narrow mouse -sized cage, in which the free -born soul stumbles. The image of your face is just wrinkled, washing grooves, it is not yet known whether the dirt or just aging.

Subject to reflective misconceptions, not only who you were, but nowadays increasingly who you could have been; They are very ******* with unbreakable threads, as are the habit of tied fools, or the pigs taken to the slaughterhouses, and you can't understand yourself; In the old, grotesque world in which you were forced to prosper as if the cross -sections of the interior were becoming more and more scarce.

You could hardly recognize the smells who just stopped by you, that you. Is it good or malicious to a person hidden in the given branded, expensive suits - at the same time towing, knocking, treading, or, if you like intentionally, it is necessary to not only only the Alamus ants in this world, but also the unworthy Caesar.

There is no one who can speak to you as a wisdom of libraries, and you would listen to you with interest, because you would feel from the inside that you can trust it, so you can give it to your true, real simple word. - The memories of the soul that are embedded in stories so they quickly fall out of bribes.

There are no abandoned houses to be considered home. On the sharp pebbles or is forced to balance while your legs are wounded by the stone; It would be good to have an inner map that leads to an encrypted guide that would whisper the one-to-one as a gullible heart: maybe it can't be too late, maybe someone is waiting for you!