It was a one-story house in the village. In a small courtyard, the suction pump used at least four to five people, two wheels and side-by-side rugs in one corner of the car. In the area opposite the cedar, there was usually a junkyard full of iron, copper and cables. The curtains behind the iron windows of the house were permanently closed. No saffron was seen during the day. I'm not leaving town.
He was seventy years old, sitting at home, dwarfing his neck, really fat. He didn't forget to wear a rubber hanger to keep his pants from falling. Like the green skull on his head, he always drew his long amber rosary in his hand. His shirt never opened, he didn't bend his arms. Thick eyebrows, thick brown eyes, brown or black eyes stole your hand.
Human's forehead lines stacked.
His wife's black linens were poor. There's not much to see. Once, she spoke at the mailman's cafe and said her lashes were small, her eyes too small, and her eyelashes too long. Rubber shoes in front of the house that absorbs the front of the bag:
