woodland of this land of ship's justification and the bottom people of the polishchuks entered shibolitsaur, as i began to remember to myself, i froze for days at the trenches, and in front of mine and vatsha stood my proud, polissya, i lay for months already pita. polishuks were in my head. i wrote a novel about the war and stood behind my shoulders, praising my phenomenon and the axis, the day of the rut has come, expressively otshu mustache, i can no longer write. now the life of the local population is different from the former in the mid-nineties, most of the villages had roads. the youth left, and together with the old-timers , the traditions of maintaining the former households also left. here it became difficult at the big gate and he zahata his big all sorts of crumb tiles, i hold. there's a cucumber tomato on your smoker. give good, there are young fucking, of course. oh, three goats, two goats, yo and a horse, and also smoke chickens. well , the inhabitants of the woodland are cautious and prudent, they perceive life as it is and rely on their own alexander krivola, who lives i