My deary friend...

[Mujib Aunik]

Hey, how are You? 

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Bye,

And see You later ;-)

--
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himself--' He's right, of course . . .'
    'Mark my words,' the poet whispered to him. ' He's pretending to be an
idiot so that he can trap us with some  compromising  question. You can hear
how he speaks Russian,' said the poet, glancing sideways and watching to see
that the stranger was  not eavesdropping. '  Come on,  let's arrest  him and
then we'll get rid of him.'
    The poet led Berlioz by the arm back to the bench.
    The unknown  man  was no longer sitting on it  but standing  beside it,
holding a booklet in a dark grey binding, a fat envelope made of good  paper
and a visiting card.