True Love — The True Life
How I can tell to you, how much I love my beloved Fanta? Without it, my world does not do, would not exist. Its gentle contact. Its sweet voice. Its kind understanding. When I come home after firm day on work its sweet tenderness wipes away cares and difficulty of day. It—light of my day. She—queen of my night. Its eyes study mine and there is no need for words. We speak in unexpressed language, each other, smoothly. Regardless the facts that happen up there in daylight, above the ground, in the hidey hole to each other, we create our own world which never can be separated by anybody. Ever.
When I have found my beloved Fanta, verging she was being a cherub. Black Angels were going to have their way, to take my love to the altar. See—they have left their mark, from the Animal, on its neck. Fortunately, money can be so powerful as religion and gods and devils. Hence, for a nice penny—I saw my love from afar as I moved around the city—I was able to buy freedom so that we could be together forever. It was not always easy. First love would shout at night, to try to leave. At the first woven cords have bitten a circuit in its flesh. Love was afraid to love, understand how I felt, how I required it to feel. But it has learned in due course. The smart girl, not the smartest, but smart enough. My beloved Fanta. The true love is not easy. It is sometimes firm, as an angry fist. Or bite a hand which feeds it. The true love can bleed. Or cry as a shout, the child whimpering.
