mazacuuka's Friends

psrs filmas bija galvenokārt par karu.
smukas drēbes varēja dabūt par blatu vai šuvējas šuva.
kurš te grib psrs? ērmsnītis?
kas grib psrs, lai brauc uz krieviju vai baltkrievuju

Comment on this

govs @ 8:33am:

jā, žeižens var strādāt. varbūt ne pilnasslodzes darbu, bet drusku var. nav jau tik debīls, tikai drusku.
bet mz vari neārdīties, ārsti izvērtēja viņa veselību, un konstatēja, ka ir tāds, kāds ir.
redz arī sniegpulkstenīśus, ne tikai 3 litrus un atlas.
mz pašam arī lēkme. mz tāds agresīvs. žeņa maigāks tips.

3 Comments - Comment on this

pretzel @ 8:05am: "March" by Mary Oliver

There isn’t anything in this world but mad love. Not in this world. No tame love, calm love, mild love, no so-so love. And of course, no reasonable love. Also there are a hundred paths through the world that are easier than loving. But, who wants easier? We dream of love, we moon about it, thinking of Romeo and Juliet, or Tristan, or the lost queen rushing away over the Irish sea, all doom and splendor. Today, on the beach, an old man was sitting in the sun. I called out to him, and he turned. His face was like an empty pot. I remember his tall, pale wife; she died long ago. I remember his daughter-in-law. When she died, hard, and too young, he wept in the streets. He picked up pieces of wood, and stones, and anything else that was there, and threw them at the sea. Oh, how he loved his wife. Oh, how he loved young Barbara. I stood in front of him, not expecting any answer yet not wanting to pass without some greeting. But his face had gone back to whatever he was dreaming. Something touched, me lightly, like a knife-blade. I felt I was bleeding, though just a little, a hint. Inside I flared hot, then cold. I thought of you. Whom I love madly.

Comment on this

govs @ 12:51am:

taisi labāk lietotājus dzīvniekus

Comment on this

govs @ 12:23am:

pēc uzraksta uz mājas sākās epštīna lieta.
pēc kurjera uzbrukuma, pārskatīs kurjeru lietu.

Comment on this

govs @ 12:10am:

gan jau ka nē

Comment on this