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The winter
And my father, and at you, and my mother this it is so frequentmeeting in children's disputes the give rise tel rather polemic formula, and sometimes and tragichny protection of illusion in which you want to trust, but nachiyou ache to doubt.
Wait a moment, here I will tell to the father.
Very much I your father am afraid.
And the truth, my father is terrible only for me.
Egocentric I would call and the look of the child on those isthe kushchy moment on absence of experience the child livesone present.
The game postponed for week ceases reality.
The winter seems a tale in the summer.
Leaving a cake for tomorrow, the child renounces it'necessarily.
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