Everyday was another day spent waiting.  Every night was another night when she might meet someone who would  recognize her true worth.

Whenever it poured like this, Max felt as if time was pausing. It was like a cease-fire during which you could stop whatever you were doing and just stand by a window for hours, watching the performance, an endless curtain of tears falling from heaven.

If its not love then it must be hate and if its not hate then it must be something greater or immeasurable or something that could not disintergrate but decipate and disappear into space into nothingness which is no less then what fate would have it to be.

I could go to London in 2012. I will only be 37.

Written By Oxana Chusovitina

About us

Featured posts

Featured Topics

Quick Links