49-year-old Svetlana Bondarchuk refers to the number of the intelligentsia of Russia, so such photos on her blog to raise questions.
Svetlana shoved it in his mouth a rose and asked me to hold her chin:
“I write to You this letter with pleasure, not reaching, however, to lust, because lust is insanity, and I was quite sober. I don’t love You anymore. Nothing happened — life happened. I don’t think of You any morning waking or night, asleep or on the street, no music, never. If You fell in love with another woman, I would have smiled with an arrogant emotion — and thought — curious — about You and her. I left the game. — All that I feel for You — easy excitement of voice and total creative excitement, as is always the presence of mind partner. Your face I still like. — Why I don’t love You anymore? Knowing me, You do not expect “don’t know”. Two years in a row I’m — mentally — in his heart — dragged You along all the roads, halls, churches, cars, I never left You even for a second, was counting the hours, waiting for the call, lay like one dead if the call was not all as all, and still not all. I see Your dark face over a Cup of coffee in coffee and tobacco smoke — You were like velvet, I’m talking about the voice as steel — say the words — I admired You, I loved You very much. One comparison — quirky but loyal You were to me the drumbeat, rising to his feet at midnight, all the boys of the city. — First you stopped loving me. If this had not happened, I would have still loved You, because I love always to the most recent opportunities. First You came in 4 hours, then 5 hours, then 6 hours, then in the eighth, then stopped. You don’t love me anymore (how to cut). You just stopped loving me every minute of my life, and I did the same, listened to You, as always. First you forgot who I am. I write to You without bitterness and without pleasure. You without bitterness and without pleasure, You’re the best expert on me than anyone, I’m just telling You as an expert and connoisseur — and I think that You of habit, praise me for the accuracy of feeling and transfer.”
– signed Svetlana post by words of Marina Tsvetaeva.
It’s so thin… a rose in my mouth, Tsvetaeva… the pain and bitterness of loss…
You like all this high culture?