Milf Diary

This is a story about a little fragile woman who captivated the world and became great. The only of its kind Edith Piaf.

The story of a cash teen whose mother gave birth in the street under a lamp. She has been blind from birth, and only saw the world in seven years. Prior to that time, was living in a brothel and vospityvalas local "sisters of mercy."

The story of a girl, which brodila barefoot in the streets and sang unearthly, surprising force votes on love, life and hope. Her passion and simple people passing money. But it will never take their skill. Five francs whether or received over five million songs, the money equally quickly gone through her thin fingers.

The story of a girl that has probitsya in people. She came from the street and sang in night clubs. The only thing in that it is believed the song. Song was her only love. Men, however, it is not spared. But there has never been one who went past the Edith Piaf and remained indifferent. It could either love or hate.

Always crappy worried when to go for the high-riding training.

The heart beats thrills. Weaker knees. Hands potragivayut.

Each time this feeling, as if go to the second date with someone who madly like the first:) represent?

Foods on the bus. And approaching the cherished goal, every stop to notice what is going on around me. Here come the old familiar today, I even vskriknula so scared-not noticed it ... thinking only about one-rather quickly. Going ...

Going to where the smells of hay, horses, manure ... where the warm and comfortable as at home .. where can smooth stroking his neck, a look in their eyes and huge wet ... and he utknetsya muzzle you will be in the hands and gently breathe their fragrance. His soft nose so carefully, so will carefully deal with the palms. All the earth's retreat run away. It would be just he and I, my gentle and gentle beast.

I did not once and not immediately realized
With prose and poetry is not for me.
Terzalas creativity.
Tried to be a poet.
Writer. His dream catch up.

But has not been able to ... and asphyxiated somewhere ...
among the work suetnyh weeks, travel,
hobbies. Released. His dream
at will. It is now free and easily.
In broad hovering clouds. Foolish and clean.

And I now free. Not a writer. Not poet.
I OBYKNOVENNY people.

Yet I did not once, not once realized
With me is not a dream away to the light.
My soul metalas day of days ...
It was visionary. Not me.

And because my dream alive ...
And nezabvenna ...
Fresh, pure and free and easy.