I wish the rock

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Last night, sitting in front of the computer

bowed his head , suddenly smelt a smell

is the taste of salted fish , I touch his faint smell of smoke mixed

suddenly felt very desolate

If not rejected, may now be able to lie to myself I'm in love with him with

happy when I became so miserable

deep penetration of the taste I like the taste

smell is gone ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but again

smell will always casual , once a serious sniff Would have no ...

that the warmth of a sudden , I was touched ...

I've always been the poor man can not choose their own happiness, or that I will not Choose not to choose

with what I can not give ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], it will only obtain

just give him a shout ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], tell him I was leaving the taste of his warm,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but let him not mistaken

trace their really poor ... the smell of it makes me so touched

listening to Familiar ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], desolation , and a man ,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], I wish the rock, you over there right?

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

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.