 Wysłany: Śro 15:22, 04 Maj 2011 Temat postu: why put yourself and others miserable too |
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| know our mistakes and can improve the best thing ! Men are not saints,beats by dre, practice makes no too ,tods! May be too much weight , I recently committed by a company of their own can not forgive myself from the start I knew it was wrong, why can I commit it? I do not understand their own ideas , even hate what you do,Casque dr dre, I love my side hurt ,Polo Ralph Lauren pas cher, and I love people!
unhappy boil a few days , sleepless nights , if there is if we're OK,beats by dre, I Haohen own , but face the same thing every time I would have committed the same mistake,dre beats, a mistake and then Wrong , I know the same thing twice if the offense is the world's most stupid , I told myself to calm it was a mistake , but still could not control myself ... ... This is my own under the Final ultimatum , to be a wise man, abandoning the military commander is the best guarantee , why put yourself and others miserable too! TAG Tags: forgive uncomfortable unhappy ultimatum ( Editor : sammy) there are monumental works Responsibilities and obligations seven tipsy send poetry. The driver clambered into his seat, clicked his tongue, and we went downhill. The brake squeaked horribly from time to time. At the foot he eased off the noisy mechanism and said, turning half round on his box-- "We shall see some more of them by-and-by." "More idiots? How many of them are there, then?" I asked. "There's four of them--children of a farmer near Ploumar here. . . . The parents are dead now," he added, after a while. "The grandmother lives on the farm. In the daytime they knock about on this road, and they come home at dusk along with the cattle. . . . It's a good farm." We saw the other two: a boy and a girl, as the driver said. They were dressed exactly alike, in shapeless garments with petticoat-like skirts. The imperfect thing that lived within them moved those beings to howl at us from the top of the bank, where they sprawled amongst the tough stalks of furze. Their cropped black heads stuck out from the bright yellow wall of countless small blossoms. The faces were purple with the strain of yelling; the voices sounded blank and cracked like a mechanical imitation of old people's voices; and suddenly ceased when we turned into a lane. I saw them many times in my wandering about the country. They lived on that road, drifting along its length here and there, according to the inexplicable impulses of their monstrous darkness. They were an offence to the sunshine, a reproach to empty heaven, a blight on the concentrated and purposeful vigour of the wild landscape. In time the story of their parents shaped itself before me out of the listless answers to my questions, out of the indifferent words heard in wayside inns or on the very road those idiots haunted. Some of it was told by an emaciated and sceptical old fellow with a tremendous whip, while we trudged together over the sands by the side of a two-wheeled cart loaded with dripping seaweed. Then at other times other people confirmed and completed the story: till it stood at last before me, a tale formidable and simple, as they always are, those disclosures of obscure trials endured by ignorant hearts. |
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