~*Revue_Blanche*~

from “Tales of Demiurges”
“Am I dead?” asked the man.
“You are”, the demiurge Shumbumboocklie nodded examining contents of a thick volume, “Dead. Absolutely”.
The man shifted from one foot to the other. “What comes next?”
The demiurge glanced at the man, and lost himself in reading again: “This way now”. Without looking at the man he pointed to an ordinary door. “Or this way”. His index finger turned to the opposite side, pointing to other similar door.
The man asked: “What is there?”
“Hell”, said Shumbuboocklie, “Or paradise. It depends”.
Hesitating the man shifted his eyes from one door to another. “Where am I to go?”
“Don’t you know, where?” the demiurge said raising an eyebrow.
“Well…” the man stopped short in confusion, “Whatever I knew, I am to go somewhere, according to my deeds”.
“Hum…” Shumbumboocklie marked the pages with his finger and looked at the man. “According to your deeds?”
“Well, yes. How else could it be?”
“All right”, Shumbumboocklie opened the book at its beginning and said: “It’s written here that at the age of 12 you helped an old woman to cross a street. Is it truth?”
“Yes, it is”. The man nodded.
“Is it good deed or bad?”
“Good, of course!”
“Let’s have a look…” Shumbumboocklie turned the page, “In five minutes the old woman was run over by tram. But for you the old woman and the tram would miss each other, and she would live ten years more. Well?”
The man looked blank.
“Now, there…” Shumbumboocklie opened the book at other page, “At the age of 22 you and a group of your friends participated at the cruel beating of other group of friends”.
“They were the first to attack!” The man jerked his head.
“It’s written it was not so”, objected the demiurge. “By the way, your alcohol intoxication is not an excusing factor. In general, you broke three fingers and a nose of a 16-year-old youth with no reason. Is it good or bad?”
Silence.
“After the mutilation the youth could not play violin any more. You ruined his career”.
“I did it by accident”, said the man quietly.
“It goes without saying”, Shumbumboocklie nodded, “Apropos, the boy hated the violin from his childhood. After your meeting he decided to go for boxing to be able to fight, and then he became a champion. Let’s proceed?” Shumbumboocklie turned a few pages more. “Is the rape good or bad?”
“But I…”
“That child became a good doctor and saved hundreds lives. Is it good or bad?”
“Well, I guess…”
“A life of a maniac-serial killer was among the lives. Is it good or bad?”
“But…”
“And the maniac killed the pregnant woman who could become a mother of a great scientist. Good? Bad?”
“But…”
“The great scientist--if he was born--should invent a bomb that would able to burn half the continent. Bad? Good?”
“But I knew nothing of all this!” the man cried out.
“It goes without saying”, agreed the demiurge, “Or this, for example, page 345… You stepped on a butterfly!”
“What did come of it?”
Without saying a word the demiurge turned the book to the man and pointed with his index finger to a text. The man read, and his hair moved on his head. “Horrible!” he whispered.
“But if you didn’t smash the butterfly, then look at what would happen”. Shumbumboocklie pointed to other paragraph.
The man read it and gulped down jerkily. “It turned out I saved the world?”
“Yes. Four times. It was when you smashed the butterfly, when you pushed the old man, when you betrayed your comrade and when you stole the purse of your grandmother. Every time the world was on the brink of catastrophe but it got out thanks to you”.
“Ah… as for the brink of catastrophe, it was because of me too?”
“It’s because of you, make no doubt. Two times. When you fed a stray cat, and when you saved a drowning man”.
The man’s legs gave way under him, and he sat down on the floor. “I can’t understand anything”, he gave a sob, “All I did in my life… all what I was proud of and what I was ashamed of… all is the wrong way round, all is inside out!”
“That’s why it’s wrong to judge you by your deeds--unless by your intentions, but you are your own judge in this”. Shumbumboocklie closed the book with a bang and placed it in the bookcase. “In short, as soon as you decide which door you choose, go there. And I have a pile of work to do”.
The man lifted his tear-stained face. “But I don’t know which of them opens into hell, which into paradise”.
“It depends on your choice”, said Shumbumboocklie.

*the driftage*
The wind plays waves. It’s in the order of things. Order, the keen, individual Design. The world measures, it is limited, there is order in everything, even in the seeming disorder: in the wet varicoloured pebbles, scattered on the plage, and in a stroke of a child’s fluffy eyelashes while the morning ray slides over the peach-coloured cheek--do you remember, Nabokov’s Humbert nurses the thought of possessing Lolita at the moment as she sleeps. What the knowledge of the inevitable end for a human? Nature is immortal, and universe is helix-shaped. A night flower is blooming for only one night but the flower doesn’t know of that, therefore it is immortal. The sea stands still casing a grain of sand, the prime cause of a black pearl in the shell, and afterwards the pearl will recall its parent listening to the pulse of the salt sea in my veins. Realizable death exists only to a human. Humans began to die, after they learnt they were mortal. A baby in a cradle knows nothing of death therefore he is immortal. In insistent attempts to avoid the inevitable end, to break the great Design and to fool, Man tries to get esoteric knowledge, might and power, to become a part of something extraordinary, to be initiated in mysteries. The multiple fussy attempts to make the elixir of immortality bring Man nearer to the ultimate full stop with lightning speed. This act is taxing and sorrowful. Others, in their attempts to brush human nature aside, cannot love. A loss is inevitable at this game. Except realization of death the Almighty gives Man an ounce of his strength to add balance so that Man could go--to where?--to a chasm?--to non-existence?--no!--to the bewitched place where waves cover the plage with myriads salt tears of sunken ships.

The Hill
by Rupert Brooke
Breathless, we flung us on the windy hill,
Laughed in the sun, and kissed the lovely grass.
You said, "Through glory and ecstasy we pass;
Wind, sun, and earth remain, the birds sing still,
When we are old, are old. . . ." "And when we die
All's over that is ours; and life burns on
Through other lovers, other lips," said I,
--"Heart of my heart, our heaven is now, is won!"

"We are Earth's best, that learnt her lesson here.
Life is our cry. We have kept the faith!" we said;
"We shall go down with unreluctant tread
Rose-crowned into the darkness!" . . . Proud we were,
And laughed, that had such brave true things to say.
--And then you suddenly cried, and turned away.
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*a tassel*
Let me preface this note by saying I read the book when I was a teenager. It is collected novelettes by Estonian writer Oskar Luts (1887-1953):
http://www.imdb.com/name/nm0527489/
At present I have no this book to reread it, because I’ve lost it years back. The book is a most interesting read for those who love actuality in literature. Entitled The Backyard the book has three novelettes. The first is The Backyard (Tagahoovis); this novelette is about inhabitants of cheap rooms of a big lucrative house, whose windows look into the backyard, about those who have taken a back seat in life. The second novelette’s title is It’s Written; it is about a life of villagers in the marshland of Estonia, about a village girl nicknamed Wild Cat and about a murder of a man, committed with the aid of an old kerchief, in the marsh, late at night. Most interesting. I can’t recall the third novelette’s title, I just remember that it is about a middle class family, and it is very interesting too. I read the book long ago, and I’ve forgotten much of its contents, but I still remember the good impression.
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*Grand Designs*
The priest wearing a long dark array from top to toe was reading aloud the solemn incantations. The mysterious signs ornament over his ritual array was carefully elaborated. The vaults of the cave had not former pomposity, but they still trilled impressible minds: the frescos of scenes of the initiation to a weird cult, a rose-crowned matron sitting in a chariot drawn by lions in the central fresco, the filigree of capitals of the pilasters. A small saline lake there was in the middle of the cave. Bubbles appeared on the surface of the lake from time to time. The air smelled of sulphur. The priest took no notice of the ancient decoration’s beauty, he chanted the sacral texts, and acolytes or hired bodyguards heeded him, silently standing at the entrance. Now the text came to an end, and nothing happened for several seconds. A doubt rose in the priest’s mind: whether he read the texts correctly? whether he did all right? And now water of the lake rippled; the flame of the oil-lamps flashed up; somebody gave a screech. “Belarriss!” exclaimed the priest. “Magna Mater! Goddess! We resuscitate you to worship you, to rebuild your temples so that the cult of the goddess Belarriss again…” The water seethed, the air sparked, and a pillar of a luminescent substance rose rapidly taking shape of a human form.
“Is there a woman here?” a loud imperious voice was heard.
“Excuse me, my lady?” The priest threw back the hood of his array, and now one could see he was a very handsome young man about twenty-five, six-foot tall, with a dark fringe a la Paul McCartney over his forehead and with young Paul McCartney’s radiant, happy and a little bit silly smile.
“I can see only men here”, explained the voice toning down. “What do the present-day women wear?”
“Oh my lady, you are beautiful… The flaming-heart is the divine aura that one feels shining from your beautiful face, the star and emblem of female beauty, which is the heart of your grace and the emanation of your power…”
“How do you know beauty, you slave?!” She gestured to one of the bodyguards. “You! What do you want to say?”
“My humble… I…” began the bodyguard taking something out of the pocket of his black leather jacket. “I have a photo. May be it is of use…” He approached, held the photo out to the reborn goddess, and bowing he retired.
The goddess examined the image of a young woman wearing blue jeans and a white blouse, and then she asked: “Is she reckoned beautiful?”
“Yes” the bodyguard nodded, and he quickly added: “Yes, Goddess”.
Belarriss dropped the photo, losing interest to it, and before everyone’s eyes she began changing: her hair got shorter and blonder, modern clothes began delineating over her form, her skin got a golden suntan. Her features were not like the girl’s in the photo, but the similar maquillage covered her face. Finishing the conversion the goddess turned to the priest: “What have you resuscitated me for?”
“Oh Miss Belarriss!” the priest came to himself after astonishment. “My intention is pure. Longing for transcendence I’ve decided to make you free to restore justice, nothing more. But if Goddess would like to have a faithful servant and trustworthy adviser…”
“Do you know of my story?” she asked.
“Yes, Goddess. I know what I’ve found out in the forgotten sources. The goddess Belarriss ruled the country for five generations. She conceived conquering the world. During one of the campaigns the citizens of the country revolted, and some bigots contrived to overthrown Goddess, and they imprisoned her essence in the bewitched cave”.
“Don’t you think it served me right?”
“Nobody dares check Goddess”.
“I expect, you’ve drawn any conclusions?”
“Oh yes, Goddess. Astonishing conclusions”. The priest’s smile was subtle now.
A bat slid noisily across the ceiling and disappeared in the dark passage.
“Not a word more!” said the goddess. “You’ll get your deserts and your desideratum… And now leave me alone”.
Taking long views the priest did not object, although plans of conquering the world flashed across his mind one by one. He believed that there was no need to hurry, that the main thing had been done, that all the rest was a matter of his cunning and legerdemain. Undoubtedly, it was an unreliable business to deal with the petticoats; on other hand he had no choice. He said bowing: “I’ll come tomorrow by night, if Goddess would like”.
The goddess said nothing. The priest walked to the doorway, nodded to his acolytes, and they left the chamber.
“Ad calendas graecas… There’s no denying that he is a clever rouge, but even a wise man stumbles, Homer sometimes nods”, the woman waited till the footsteps died away, then she slid lightly down on the floor, and at the moment her foot in the shoe with stiletto heel turned awkwardly, and the goddess nearly lost her balance. The walls of the cave resounded several ancient curses, yet Belarriss braced herself up and attempted making one more step. “How do they walk in these shoes?” she muttered. “What has happened to the world, if inconvenience has become attractive?..” Presently Belarriss was at home in the situation, being able to walk around the cave more or less easily.
Time and marauders did not spare her tomb. The goddess hardly could recognize the luxurious burial chamber, and she tried to guess where there were her favorite throne, the jeweled gold goblet, and all her jewellery now… However, all the things remained in the dim and distant past. Vexed, she uttered several phrases, and if the priest were here, he would heard: “Dunces! When on earth the idiots, the megalomaniacs will finish? They know what happened to me. Are they about to go the same way? But I know where it leads to”, Belarriss sighed deeply, glanced round the cave for the final time and walked to the doorway.
The trace of treads was visible on the ground. The woman walked along the trace, and in two hours she saw an asphalt road. In an hour more she saw the service station where there were a small café and shops. She came in the café.
A man was standing at the counter; he paid off for his meal that was on the tray. Belarriss put his hand in the pocket of her jeans and felt several banknotes materialized in her hand.
“The same for me, please”, she asked the waitress.
The waitress nodded and took the money. “Here is your change. Go to the table. I’ll bring the tray to you”.
Belarriss went to a table and sat down on a chair, squinting at the man who ate with the help of his fork.
Her meal proved to be substantial and even tasty--just the potion, called “coffee” was disgustingly bitter. “No, it’s not pharmacon nepenthes, far from it”, but Belarriss drained her cup dry not to look particular. In general, the morning had begun fairly well. It was late summer; the air smelled of autumn, but the grass was still fresh and leaves were green. “It’s midi-August”, thought the goddess. Coming out of the café Belarriss stood still at the road, thinking where she was to go now. Her reflection did not last for long: a heavy van stopped before her, the door of the car opened, and the driver asked friendly: “May I give you a lift?”
“What?”
“I can take you home. Where is you home?”
“My home… Nowhere, I think. I’m about to see the world”.
“It often happens”, the driver nodded. “I'm going to Ancile. If you want, I can give you a lift. No molestation, I assure you”.
“That’s not what I worry about. It seems to me that you are either married or engaged”.
“You’ve guessed right”. The driver helped the woman to get into the car.
“What is you bride’s name?” she asked.
“Lily-Rada”.
“What a coincidence… I am called Lily-Rada too”.
“What are you?” the driver turned the ignition.
“Goddess”, said Belarriss wearily, thinking nobody could believe her.
“Such things happen from time to time”, the driver smiled without opening his lips. He got used to hearing somebody else’s secrets, and he was not importunate. “You look sleepy. Lean back and doze off. Nothing interesting you will see for some time”.
The bright summer landscape rolled past the window. Belarriss followed his advice, and in a minute her breathing got deep and calm.
A sleeping goddess was a usual sight in this part of the world--just nobody took it seriously.

Author’s Epilogue
My Grand Designs may be the opening of a new novel. The priest, the good-looking young man with the charming smile will search for the goddess in hiding, for sure. However, the charming smile appears on his face only as he thinks of his progress of an adept-esoteric or his other achievements or his future power over the world--in other respects he may be a wicked man. Most likely he is a talented scholar and researcher. As for the goddess--as every female personage in my writings, she is I to a great extent; like she I hate spike or stiletto heels. The ancient goddess adventures novel could be a good script for a movie--In Search of Belarriss--all rights reserved, as it were.
regards,
Lara
P.S. Part 1 and Part 2 of my novel La Lune Blanche have been recently published at Turner Maxwell Books. Be sure to get your copy here:
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB.htm
http://www.turnermaxwellbooks.com/LLB2.htm

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I’m thrilled to announce
the new project
in addition to the Oscar Wilde Club
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/07/01/oscar_wilde_club~2551806
and the Golden Age Club
http://ohlala007.blog.co.uk/2007/08/14/golden_age_salon~2804337
as a part of Anthony Blanche Fan Blog--
Cameo Boys Club
at Revue_Blanche

What is the Cameo Boys Club? This is a club, dedicated to cameo boys. Who is a cameo boy? It’s Antinous, who was depicted in cameos many times over centuries, as well as other boys, whose beauty was eternalized in this way at least once.
http://www.antinoos.info/antinous.htm

If Bjorn Andresen was depicted in a cameo, he would be our cameo boy. If Eddie Furlong or another beautiful boy is depicted in a cameo some day, he will be our cameo boy.
“Cameo is a method of carving, or an item of jewellery made in this manner. It features a raised (positive) relief image; contrast with intaglio, which has a negative image. The effect of "cameo" also refers to a proof coin that has frosted lettering and features, providing attractive contrast with the mirrored fields of the coin. The terms "deep cameo" and "ultra cameo" describe cameo coins having the boldest, most attractive contrast. A cameo can be made of two types of material, commonly precious or semi-precious stone. One material is carved into a figure, the most common type being a profile portrait of a person's head. This is then set upon the other type of material which provides a background of another colour to offset the figure. This is called an assembled cameo.”

Antinous was a stunning physical beauty, but he had a host of other beautiful things about him. A young athlete and hunter, he's possessed a keen intellect; he was intensely spiritual; he was talented and well spoken; he inspired passion in a powerful man. Mortals usually hate persons who've got the whole package going on like that. I know yet more reasons to believe his death of a result of assassination. I am an ardent votaress of this less popular theory of explanation of his death, because it is my firm belief. I seek support and other devotees of the theory. There are the mentions of the theory, which I have found--they are not numerous as you can see:
"…the death carried by an unknown hand". (Marconi)
"The boy [Antinous] was killed before Hadrian had time to declare him as a successor". (Gore Vidal, novel "Julian", translation of the citation is mine)
«"Ricky said, "That's not a good reason." He stomped away. Walter locked up and noted Ricky scowling and sprawled on the couch. He was watching some show involving squealing tires and gunshots. Walter picked up a book, "Beloved and God: The Story of Hadrian and Antinous". Walter was pages into the book before he finally realized that he was reading about a passionate love affair between a youth and the Emperor Hadrian. Great. Wonderful choice. He kept reading though; he hadn't seen this before and he enjoyed history. Hmm, well, maybe Ricky wasn't all that young after all. Antinous was beautiful. Walter wondered if the youth had been murdered? The writer didn't think so, saying he had no enemies. The investigator in Walter snorted at that. That's what people said in a hell of a lot of murder cases. Show him a person who had no enemies and Walter was sure he'd be at his or her funeral"». (thriller A Garden of Earthly Delights by Ursula)
That’s all for the time being. And these are my favorite mentions of Antinous from other sources:

“The thyme with its wooly tufts, the white lily, the purple hyacinth, the flowers of blue celandine, yes, and the rose which unfolds to the zephyrs of spring, but not before, surely, has the earth brought to bloom the flower named fore Antinous”.-- Pancrates (“…Pancrates, a poet of those regions whom we knew, showed the Emperor Hadrian when he visited Alexandria the rosy lotus as a great wonder, alleging that it was the one which should be called Antinoeios, since it sprang, so he said, from the earth when it received the blood of the Mauritanian lion which Hadrian had killed when hunting in the part of Libya near Alexandria; it was a huge creature that for a long time had ravaged the whole of Libya, of which this lion had made many places uninhabitable. Hadrian, therefore, pleased at the originality and novelty of his thought, granted him the favour of maintenance in the temple of the Muses. The comic poet Cratinus, also, calls the lotus a wreath plant in Odysseis, since all leafy plants are spoken of as wreath plants by the Athenians. So Pancrates in his poem says, not without elegance: “The thyme with its woolly tufts, the white lily, the purple hyacinth, the flowers of blue celandine, yes, and the rose which unfolds to the zephyrs of spring; but not before, surely, has the earth brought to bloom the flower named for Antinous.”-- Athenaeus , Deipnosophistae, Book XV)

“In regards to the Antinoeion Flower:
Neither the Athenian narcissus, nor the Lacedaemonian hyacinth, nor the crocus was from the beginning a flower; and neither child Hylas in Thrace, nor the cypress tree in Crete, nor the daphne was from the beginning a plant. But Crocus was a Sicilian lad, child Hylas was a beautiful Thracian, and Cypress was a beautiful boy. Daphne was a young virgin maiden, daughter of the river, Narcissus was a beautiful Boetian boy, and Hyakinthos was a young Spartan man in the bloom of his youth. Herakles had Hylas, and Dionysus took him. Crocus joined Dionysus in his Bacchic revels. Nymphs seized Narcissus, and Apollo took Hyakinthos and Daphne. Nymphs killed Crocus, nymphs carried away Hylas, Cypress threw himself down from rocks and the earth received Daphne when she was fleeing. Narcissus in his arrogance loving himself like another killed himself. Only one flower, the flower of Antinous, is sweeter than all by far, not pale like the narcissus, pained by his taking; and not pale like the hyacinth, imitating the color of a corpse. Someone will gather garlands of lamented names, and will lament more the youth of the dying men.”-- The Tebtynis Papyrus

“I never saw him in the flesh, but I have seen images...”-- Pausanias

“…A moment more, the trees had stooped to kiss
Pale Daphne just awakening from the swoon
Of tremulous laurels, lonely Salmacis
Had bared his barren beauty to the moon,
And through the vale with sad voluptuous smile
Antinous had wandered, the red lotus of the Nile”.
(from The Burden of Itys by Oscar Wilde )

“…Lift up your large black satin eyes which are like cushions where one sinks!
Fawn at my feet fantastic Sphinx! and sing me all your memories!
Sing to me of that odorous green eve when couching by the marge
You heard from Adrian's gilded barge the laughter of Antinous
And lapped the stream and fed your drouth and watched with hot and hungry stare
The ivory body of that rare young slave with his pomegranate mouth!”
(from The Sphinx by Oscar Wilde )

“…And it is thus, and finally, that the art of Antinous celebrates his story and his myth. The astonishing quality is its deliberate reticence. In an age in which works of painstaking realism and of contrived allegory proliferated, here was one ripe subject which the artists refused to illustrate literary or to elaborate fancifully. By refusing to be explicit, by knowing exactly where to stop, the artists charged their works with a potency and a magnetism which endure. The sculptures are content to do no more than hint variously at sorrowful devotion, serene resignation, ineluctable fate, heroic action or triumphant resolution. They exhibit the most superficial attractions but suggest the most profound experiences. They are impregnated with a beauty at once voluptuously carnal and yet austerely spiritual. Their attributes connect with fundamental themes of love and death, redemption and immortality. These lucid yet baffling works invite our questions but refuse all answers. Their tantalizing enigma may therefore conceal everything or nothing, plenitude or vacuity, the cosmos or the trivial. We can never know. Antinous remains in them, as he remains at the end of our researches and as he may always have been in life to the fascinated Hadrian, an ever-perplexing but ever-inviting mystery”.-- Royston Lambert

“One of the strengths of the belief in Antinous was its appeal to the most sensitive and inward of mystical natures as well as to the exuberant, joyous and ecstatic sides of human experience”.-- Royston Lambert

“…An article from the book Masks of Dionysus says that Dionysos does not save people from suffering in the underworld, he saves people in this life now and makes their lives better now--and this is why Hadrian and other emperors were called the neos Dionysos, the ‘new Dionysos’, because they were saviors in this life, now, for people of various cities because of the benefactions that they gave them which made their lives better and more peaceful and joyous and fruitful. And the same can be said for the Beautiful and Glorious God Antinous--he is our savior not from eternal damnation or from the pains and struggles in an afterlife, but in our lives now”.--Phillip Bernhardt-House
“…the Earth, spinning and spinning in the thrall of an aeons-old sun, which will burn out, in a solar system within a galaxy that will eventually collide with another galaxy and be destroyed, in a universe that is likely at some indeterminate time to collapse. Therefore, there really only is this very moment to cherish, the beauty and wonder of things must be appreciated now and our reward for doing so must come in our hearts, not in some future post-death state if we have followed all the rules, but rather now, with love and compassion and pleasure and understanding and knowledge and wisdom and the perception of beauty in every possible thing our senses can apprehend”.--Phillip Bernhardt-House
sources:
Beloved and God, by Royston Lambert, Viking 1984.
and
http://www.liminalityland.com/aediculaantinoi.htm
Notice: This site is being redeveloped and may not be available at the present time.

*Save me--Rette mich*
About Tokio Hotel I learnt from my friend in the yahoogroup. I saw the photos, felt curious, began searching, learnt something more about TH and as a result I am a Tokio Hotel fan now. As you know, teenagers from Germany and Central Europe are TH fans mainly--and me along with them. Four boys; two of them are lovely wunderkinds, brothers Bill and Tom Kaulitz. Tom is an angel, as his fans say. And Bill is my beloved. I can’t understand his songs in German, I hardly can cite a line from his songs, but I love his manner and divine clear voice, and his burring German “r” drives me out of my mind. The breathtakingly beautiful boy from Leipzig, he is a true artist--an ideal artist and an ideal of an artist. He is a good German boy and a true artist. I saw a video where he, a young boy was disguised as a girl or was wearing clothes that looked like female. Charm itself! Innocence itself! Mr Charm! In my view he is a new young Antinous. May be someone doesn’t agree with me, but at any rate, the divine immortal spirit of the Dionysiac artists of Rome, who venerated the god Antinous, has descended on Bill. September 1 is Kaulitz Twins’ birthday; in 2006, when he was 17, I have written a poem, dedicated to Bill, and sent my congratulation to him. I even received an e-mail reply, and then, for a week I exchanged e-mails with a boy who wrote on behalf of Bill. Personally I believe it was not Bill but a boy from the Tokio Hotel Team, for I don’t cherish vain hopes; most likely Bill himself knows nothing of my letter and poem, and yet… And yet in my heart of hearts I still have a glimmer of hope: what if it was he?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bn76WbjIWEI&mode=related&search=Tokio%20hotel

P. S. If you have any news of a cameo boy you’d like to share here, let me know!
regards,
Lara

http://i039.radikal.ru/0803/83/687287790114.jpg

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