Late at night, I cannot help but laugh; a deep, dark bitter laugh that rumbles throughout your chest. Almost as though a part of you is awakened, almost. Maybe I've changed, maybe I've always been this bitter. But was it my bitterness that led me to sit here, alone in the darkness? Should I be ashamed, or be consumed in one's own self-pity? All you know is that you've broken, damaged; left to remain in endless confusion. Sometimes it makes you feel like a child, but aren't you? Wandering the streets with innocence. It scares you to be happy, as though it is unreal. But how can it be? To be so happy, to laugh, to smile, to just live and enjoy; how can that be real, without it somehow setting you up for the dread to come? Who am I, you ask? I am the one who stays up late at night, the one who is ashamed, the wallower, the empty one; I am alone, broken, damaged, scared, cautious, confused, bitter, and naively, utterly naively joyus. For him, to be so important, to be so safe, it cannot last, it just can't. Yet as the bitter laugh fades away, dying in the throat, grief becomes overwelming and I sit here, in the darkness, alone; wishing every dreadful feeling to reamin only for the happiness to stay.

И, конечно, глупая еврейская девушка влюбилась в мусульманский мальчик

My backup account http://www.youtube.com/user...