Истории Franko

hey hey you,yeeah u if ur werid read this book by me,ledger/-@Black-Warrior- brock who doesn't have an acount yet and finally Franko who doesn't have an account either yet oh + Fear*

I'm Gabriela Natasha Flores. An Engineering student. I always trying my best, para lang mapatunayan sa kanila na tama ang tinahak kong daan. Sa bawat hakbang narian ang mga kaibigan ko. At sya. The one who teach me how to be me, how to value myself, And also... how to risk everything to the person you love. Naniniwala ka ba sa "Love takes time?" Maybe it really works. When you love the person, will you wait for him? Hanggang kaylan naman? Mag hihintay kapa ba kung ikaw mismo hindi mo alam kung may hinihintay ka pa. I have a lot of questions, but maybe it's better if I just don't find out the answers, because it might even be a reason to hurt me more. Maybe we're just a perfect strangers. Malay mo baka talagang hanggang dito lang tayo. Maybe we can make it, until the end. Or Maybe not. So many "MAYBE'S" but still hoping that all of 'maybe' turn into a sure one. MAYBE.

Nathan. Can you hear me?

This is a story of creation. Of good. Of evil. Of life itself. And it all started with a seed.

a beutiful young man named frank (black) explores the wonders of his sack

Echoes: A Poetic Dialogue with the Classics What if the classics have not finished speaking? What if Shevchenko were writing about today's war - not as history, but as a wound that still bleeds? What if Lesya Ukrainka, who knew something profound about exile and defiance, were whispering to those who have lost their homes? What if Kostenko, Sosiura, Franko, Zhadan - seven voices separated by centuries - were to meet on the pages of a single book, not as marble busts, but as living, breathing, arguing, grieving, hoping human beings? They fell silent. Some a century ago. Some only yesterday. Yet the questions they lived by - freedom, dignity, love, resistance - have not gone anywhere. They hang in the air. They wait. Echoes is a book in which those words find a voice. Not quotations. Not imitation. Living speech - as though the dead poets had borrowed a living voice for one more hour. There is no museum here. Here is a bridge. A conversation across centuries, with room for fury, tenderness, silence, and hope. The dead are not dead - they are waiting for you to listen. Open any page - and perhaps you will hear an echo that has been travelling toward you for a hundred years.