like it to fans of as crazy

Editor's note: Do you love coffee from the works of writers and artists inspired by the original smell their smell of coffee. For centuries, coffee is the most silent in a gentle convert in our lives.
I like coffee, like it to fans of as crazy, if the degree. It was dark brown like the color, smell like it was some mellow flavor,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], more like it was slightly bitter chemicals in the mouth. In fleeting,, like it all.
for the plots are often products of its various brands of different flavors,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], static from sitting in the window, and coffee as componentners, friends and coffee. Different flavors of coffee in the product and feel, the eyes closed listening to the rain; to drink coffee and the environment at different fora, the contemplation of the night after a gorgeous day hustle and bustle; accompanied with coffee and mood at different times, the water with their own Like the lonely heart dialogue. Although there are too often feel lonely and negative,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], but I still really enjoy the unique feeling of drinking coffee.
buoyant in the rain season, when the rhythm of the rain outside the window the sound that sounded, I would brew a good cup of strong coffee, stood before the windows tinted glass, a motionless, looking out of everything. While enjoying the rain outside the window Rose, accompanied by the soft rain and wind Look, dance; side of the thin taste of the bitter cup of coffee, bitter coffee that accompanied the same water I am feeling tranquilly the miss distance; while listening to the rhythm of the music that moving the rain with the sound of rain dripping sound that accompanied the indoor melodious music, delivered to my wife where Acacia far southern border. All of this, such as boiling coffee, shrouded in mist in front of me, as gently across my restless protagonist, the beautiful consequence of divine love that instead of a desperate struggle to the bitter. Rain dripping air that day, as if out of my eyes in a Bay salty tears, so I can not help but fantasy and his own into a virtual stories.
the many coffee,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], my favorite is the mocha. It is not like Nestle coffee as black and white, like a killer out arena for many years, living with a touch of peace Death is an exciting life; and Maxwell did not like the sweet and delicious, like a pair of couples in love , happy, sweet; more like Colombian coffee has an acid as the feeling is like having a loved one in the vinegar, the sour taste of my heart there. Mocha invariably retains its own unique bitterness, as a deep story, does not require any additives to supplement their own,[link widoczny dla zalogowanych], becautilize this story is perfect. And me? Is that there are storytellers. I like the magic card, although bitter, but never sugar. I like any kind of coffee without sugar, because all the coffee, if the increase of the
looking at the continuing rain, looked at the cup has already drank the coffee, I feel very fresh. Coffee obsessed in the sense of listening to the rain the rain want to reward your heart, do not have a state of mind.

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

[link widoczny dla zalogowanych]

The path led to a tiny village perched on the steep sides of a mountain. The place consisted of a straggling unmade road which was lined on either side by small houses. Even under a clear blue sky, the village looked forbidding, as all the houses were built of grey mud bricks. The village seemed deserted, the only sign of life being an ugly-looking black goat on a short length of rope tied to a tree in a field nearby. Sitting down on a dilapidated wooden fence near the field, we opened a couple of tins of sardines and had a picnic lunch. All at once, I noticed that my wife seemed to be filled with alarm. Looking up I saw that we were surrounded by children in rags who were looking at us silently as we ate. We offered them food and spoke to them kindly, but they remained motionless. I concluded that they were simply shy of strangers. When we later walked down the main street of the village, we were followed by a silent procession of children. The village which had seemed deserted, immediately came to life. Faces appeared at windows. Men in shirt sleeves stood outside their houses and glared at us. Old women in black shawls peered at us from doorways. The most frightening thing of all was that not a sound could be heard. There was no doubt that we were unwelcome visitors. We needed no further warning. Turning back down the main street, we quickened our pace and made our way rapidly towards the stream where we hoped the boatman was waiting.