Street lamp on a ten-meter concrete pillar goes off every minute in order to re-ignite, the flame on the tip of my Romeo and Juliet N2, regularly remains at the moment the closest to me is the light source. Tiny scarlet light. Midnight in autumn in Eastern Siberia already getting numb fingers from the cold, but I'm trying to gain them the text in the online translator window on your Sony. The text that I want to send Mr. king. The text, which he 99% will never see, not read. But for some reason I really want to ask him, to ask him a question, which is why it is not leaving me from the moment I read the first half of the first book of the series the Dark Tower. What happened to that little girl in that town, mad with the people who killed the shooter. Baby hardly any infants that happily drooled sitting in the mud of the stables Kennerly. The shooter shot and killed thirty-nine men, fourteen women and five children. Everyone who was in Tallaght.
And then when I read these lines I get the feeling that among these children could not be the baby of breastfeeding age. So what happened Mr. King?
And then when I read these lines I get the feeling that among these children could not be the baby of breastfeeding age. So what happened Mr. King?