daniil vyalkov, harmonica player of russia's golden ten, passing through barnaul, republic of altai, to your applause and the joyful presence of his ideas, and i thought. i take you and do not hear, i looked back. in the morning i opened the window, slipped milk, not a scythe, circled around doni, filled the dew and did not hear the shawarma back. and you're so urban not to drive up to you not to approach. i have from such a look, everything burns with fire inside, and i would like everything he wants for him. i would become the best for you and your mother-in-law, and the thoughts in the head of the heart about you outdoor where can i go from love, passion for you is sick to me. everything in me is just like twice two seven fridays in a week. yes, bad head all the local girls are crazy about me. only you are the only one so impregnable in your head that you will return from searching for ads in me of such a sim in the head of the heart. for god's sake, childhood is in my head, my heart is out of love. and the heart of the majets of the table is shevchat and cheryomushka leans and to