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lyuboye_slovo
I have dinner with strawberries, I eat half a kilo at a time and leave five berries at the bottom of the bowl for the sake of decency. The next day there is nothing left of decency. I say goodbye to them already calmly, quietly, without wild monstrous delight. Strawberries are just cold and sour now. Bring the cherries!
I recall the old film camera, I find a special battery for it, I turn it on - it works, the numbers show 98th. I put today's number, it's like I'm starting a time machine. I buy a film, one roll. I'm looking at its price and think, "Sasha, these 36 shots are for you for the whole summer." Oh, hope it won't be like with strawberries.
I save the film for apocalyptic-scale subjects, I trampling down park paths with white shoes, I attract and scare squirrels.
They are running among flower beds with fading tulips in which, like the scream of the flowers soul, the signs are stuck, "We aren't touching," but for some reason this is the place where everyone strives to grab them by the head.
The ducks wash themselves in a puddle on the asphalt, it smells of something fishy from the pond, the wind blows and the petals of white apple trees fly down as if nothing had happened.
