A manor house, somewhere deep within the mind. As if to demonstrate that they had been designed for the hands of giant slaves from the old continent. There was a holy atmosphere, which demanded absolute competence. Cat preferred to order in, a solemn torture in itself, for guilt wracked her as she devoured this transparent fodder while the instruments of a special magic hung unused.

The Count Lorel has dabbled with a little poetry in the classic lyrical style but makes no pretense to any real talent. Friday, 19 January 2007. My thoughts eternal on my lover. Mind rays like radio waves. Pulsing us into each other. Lip sinking, a sign language of hope and despair. It laces the air in equal measures. Unspoken, words cut down. By some verbal grim reaper, a silence keeper. Broken promises writhing on the floor. Whose mind fabric parts at the seams.

Jak by se měla zachovat Denisa z Ulice? Návod na úspěch v lásce? Víme, kde ho hledat. Proč zírat do zrcadla? Žvásty .