or on their own

[2vt8c2p4]

,Polo Ralph Lauren

you give me some time?



not the courage to tell you that I hope we have the kind of tacit understanding between the

love sometimes does not need to say it but girls want to hear

Those three words

520 possible?

your smile just as the morning sun rising bright beautiful vibrant



I do not know you so blind to love

I can tell,beats by dre, intuition tells me you're a good girl

Oh

I'm afraid that I declare this person not have to miss all the

opportunity

the guy who you see?

I say to you not only how to

slowly I just want to let you know

action I want to prove

I too have to face, and to be too much for such

I lost some things really good or not point face

love to say it out loud,chemise de polo, even if she does not love,Polo Ralph Lauren pas cher, then say so

and refused to taste really hard to escape by

some things can not escape

now I dare not look in your eyes the

you may not know that I love You

not afraid to meet you, scared that I can not get

I do not know I should be the control point,beats by dre, or on their own

to say I love you do not know You

terrible is time to stop passing

not any treasure this time

live is to their practice and finally

I do not hurt As before ending

so be it

perhaps time has not arrived yet, we use the time to understand each other under the other right?

the guy who,dre beats, every day we see

I do not say you should know

wish we had that understanding

Hey ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~


(Editor: sammy)
TAG Tags: cherish love you ending a tacit agreement
I fell in love with the guy who


all over thirty

关于你、从未离开过

_12885 deepest memories of life


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.