Tire, by Annabel

From the book cover for Polish translation of Lolita, Waldemar Świerzy

It was many and many a year a go in a kingdom near my sea, where I lived with

He called me his Lolita, or Lol. It wouldn’t be polite to say
how unlike we were, to be in the story of the unprofessional.

I did care her motion, but not Laughter, for there was never some, only what sounded like the sand in our mouths. What happened to that miss, only that she became my materials.

You know there is a harmonic fusion between tea and wine that
takes more to metabolize then most forms of meat. Whether we
can claim that killing the life of a mammal is cruel and
killing a berry is the face of real facism, is my hypocrisy.

I believe them when they say they don’t eat meat because they think they know animal. I stilling to say some day I won’t make it to the hill of what makes meat but the abstract of how we wouldn’t be those kinds of monsters.

Why would you remember themselves? No I know, I took the creep for two fast, but I don’t know if I want to give you the moon, and therefore we don’t know why the minutes

Don’t make men, when the lines make women, No, this is not a placebo for the old shows. Spaghetti all down my chin, you’d see it make my face creepy, but that’s not you, that’s me.

She loved with no other thinking than why I would care to keep saying her name, but to love is not to be loved, and whether it is with her in my mouth, or out there in her birds, that is my only loss.