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I have not forgotten, neighbor of the city
Our White House, small but quiet.
Сharles Baudelaire

The house has been a jump in the geometry of a deaf-mute greens
park, whose idle statues, how to throw a wrench
residents, loitering in malls, remaining from the convolutions;
when lit window, It was unclear - whose.
apparently, foliage noise, summarizing options
Depending on the fate (usually - in the evening),
polzovalcya scribbles, and, with a view point of the lamp,
that was enough, to heat the tungsten.
But the curtains were drawn. coarse gravel,
crunching gently, He testified not about
the presence of extraneous, But the triumph of terry
unaddressed, neighborhoods inherited from him.
And the night clouds, brought higher education
vagueness or just zadrannosti heads,
paternal covered loose feather naked
space from the amount of wild angles.


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