Twenty-first. Night. Monday. Silhouette of the capitol in darkness. Some good-for-nothing — who knows why— made up the tale that love exists on earth. People believe it, maybe from laziness or boredom, and live accordingly: they wait eagerly for meetings, fear parting, and when they sing, they sing about love. But the secret reveals itself to some, and on them silence settles down… I found this out by accident and now it seems I`m sick all the time.SourceThe script ran 0.001 seconds.
The script ran 0.001 seconds.
