Angizia
Miscellaneous
Chapter I. Scenic Monologue / The Red Gold of the Candle Wax
Pages of the book, first draft of the play, a seriously ill
in hand-washing spirits of intransigence, only weakly reciprocating< br/>in the first stages of using the place of the kitchen as a deception for heartbreaking
'mirrores of life', for me the beginning of a sketch of a
person who has never lived; active narration,
Excerpt first act.
Konstanz begins his writing Gnaschig child, a life I want
I honor you, not stake your little world with poems, the
Shame grows up in you now my stool's place, the bowl that
you never was, shall not bard in the varnish of many an unapologetic
hour'. Oh, if only little songs could be written in books that would kill me, my own peace, oh dear, I have soaked this pen in ink many times, it is my line across my forehead and my mental blindness, like even on the field of streing br/>The misty face hesitantly knew how to bear the shadow of the lamp.
Stool, move closer to me, I'll make a note of my burden, yawning
Already tired lights, these scarlet faces, I once painted for
since the bells of sin on my right hand, in the window cross, froze so sleepily
the dress of the lilac arbors, the search for lovely hands lives within me,
which was possessed to lay a pillow for me one day on my death bed .
[Istrate (in loud words):]
"To bed, to bed, yes, do you think there is a measure in all the old ways
can move like a constant thorn in your heart , also your ink, whatever it said in words, accompanying the calm like a gold-sprinkled little cloud shimmering brightly with the red sun ball in the air,
your boundaries also have a duty."
[Constance:]
"Ah Istrate, no matter how sweetly you will carry the stool, in the withering of a
scarlet flame a little flower was devoted to you, not kindly
Little cloud, my high opinion is valid, and rest 'I've forced myself into quartz's
life layers. Yes, do you believe that a constant drop is hollowing out my heart's stone, listening to my stream reverberating, emptying my barrel? to the sound, to dare to dare to open your dark eyelashes with this bombast, to joyfully accompany a life that is similar to mine, and I also drown in the torrent of speech. I drown the purple pen let, I want to ask the speaker, to whom your
breast will then answer"
A brief look at Konstanz through a window into the courtyard, not criminally, but
well-liked by the creator, a small, bright weather dwarf began to feel gray
Clouds too ruttein to catch the reward of the raindrops in the roundness of a
rusty barrel. In love with the sweet, splashing sound
of the water voice, Konstanz decides to finish a "work of ink". br/>before the barrel can turn into a burial mound and drown in
rainwater