Rather than this picture of a landscape, our eyes quickly drugged by their plumage album, still too melodic for our false notes at the bottom too overexposed by their paint swatches. Often too good for our linen box.
magnetic Rather this corner of a cafe, this small theater seasons humanities. This little piece of Eden thunes two cons a small train to hell. Bifurcation aperitif in the smoking compartment of a percolator.
was once one remembers a stroll in the sizzling colors, the clarity of a knee loving us round to an earthquake lights. It was a time in the odor of an avenue of grass still wet.
We have entered leaving a backwash of chairs in polished wood voice red card players, the thud of young fists on the table, the phosphorescence of copper abouchées lips now a merry band.
Rather paint this picture for a trip than a landscape, still pulling the tablecloth, the place of sponge bruises to the soul, this association with the clay men, a place that really helped from the portrait. Earlier this photo-stained black grapes.
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