to madness, tirelessly imposing their own invented pictures of the perception of the ball, offering to participate in long-term collaborations. Counting down hundreds of hours, growing up, stupidity sprouts, stuffed with fears, lagging behind from the rapid change of rules on the ball, with worn-out internal batteries, no longer hold more than eight, with the continuation in the night mad. Demonstration of a showcase with internal mannequins, squeezed in poses of feigned seriousness, puts some people around them into a trance of respect, admiration for the often naked. Only after 70, exhaling, looking behind the curtain of the meaning of stay, they put a vague reputation on a hanger. With the relief of filling with happiness, they plunge back into childhood, gathering in an armful grandchildren who are similar in perception, throwing off the feigned, realizing the short remainder, scooping up the lost joy of sparks, in fact, losing in past actions, in saturation with knowledge.
