There are moments in life when high precision really burden such moments born to me. Born not the way of paradise, but in the path of sorrows.

I am wishing for the remedy of our computer, so that I’ll be able to do all of these stuff at home. Then, I’ll lure my father into reading this. His own mockery into his face. And then we’ll both laugh, for I’ve ruined his practiced speech for my “debut”. He just quoted it from my grandfather anyway. The murdered line of the drunk. My love-drunks.

If I live to be a hundred, and if in my life I’ll have a baby, he’ll hear this line from me, too. During my drinking sessions.



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