The sun – after all autumn – don’t fight in windows! These beams – not beams, and nails. I will wrap up curtains – here is how. The sun, knock not on glass, and near.

The sun, be hollowed about another’s windows, walls, smiles, eyes and souls. You so are florid – not a patch of light, and an ochre. So it is sovereign: you do not heat – you smother.

The sun, seriously, you occupied. (Heads of enterprise “Indian summer”). So be not put to me, it is not necessary. Also won’t pay off (look the estimate). Too expensive and unreasonably. And it is non-profitable – silly, that is. After all at me not a window, and a zone. Northern most, cold pole.

The sun, well you knock? What?. (A word decent to find). Unless so it is difficult – to shine it is sensible? In souls happy, in houses and weddings. In general, there, where beams – don’t nail, where they – pleasure, almost a gift. The sun, isn’t necessary reproaches. Throw you. I would like, but there is no data, that in beams as in breath, – it is simple. Or there, as in kisses, too.

To me at internal a frost heat drop, as a burn on a skin. Heat drop – kerosene on a match. The condemned man – to poison, and fish – to a scaffold.

The sun, leave. Don’t enter into a habit deafly to plow curtains.