— Тимоти, Патрик не циник. Он соседский мальчик, правда, милый? — Неправда, — шепчу я себе под нос, — я злоебучий психопат. | Thinking in clichés.




Oh, he was young, in the frost,
No regard for the cost,
Of saying his feelings,
In the moment they were felt,
And if he was calm like you,
Locked up inside of your loops,
Then he'd know for well,
That all he had to say was,
All he had to say was goodbye.