love.
Yes, I love. And that's all. The disease, which destroys. Addiction that kills. And the only cure being. Darling more and more. Suffering in solitude. And again being. Kochnie, suffering ...
love. I do not want to be ashamed of this disease. But I do not tell anyone about it. The disease, which takes you to what you wsystko. Towards a new one. Only when you are staying the same, if you feel lost. How many of their own volition to wyrzekłeś, if you decide from one day to lose. And then if you feel you've gained, and again for a moment forget.
Loving Time flies quickly. Every day is like the hour. I even love suffering with time running through her fingers. So again, no time to rectify the wrongs. Time and desire, because suffering locks.
love and wait. I love and hope. I love and I would like to hear what I want. And that is not possible, I only hear what he would later misinterpret. I hear and I hate even more. But it is not that I do not want to hear.
love and count. Moments and sighs, fleeting and quick. How many more, I ask? Five or maybe six. More specifically? One hundred and thirty three hours.
I love and I persevere in my illness.
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