Ola Pawłowska

Ola Pawłowska

Along with the smell of tobacco on the fingers of light rises again, murmuring babble, shaking the dark meeting, I know that my lips were looking for those hidden, this single clamping lip in his dismay, the blazing pink and brown contour, which gave you my farthest trip. And how it always happens, in that delirium did not feel it, ...

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