bricolage

theantidote:

There is a small bulge on noctule said. Cuvier (by F.w.)

I heard the voice as a statue. But there is no one. How strange this feeling of no longer possess anything at all. The air is heavy with incense on quicklime, there will be sheets of paper that will dance to the finiteness of the day of its nocturnal noctules. It is a pale night like this that I did not see it coming, the noise of footfall was hungry, hungry for aweakness that we can not guess. Among the arums. The black hands suddenly became heavy to feel shudder the quintessence of an aurora numb. The wind fell silent with a sensitivity close to a glow of enchantment. The filter of this appareance was to leave, leave never to return as before. How much love is measured, the love of essential caught in a vicious trap. The mirror of no return. All these poplars we breathe as hard liquor forgotten in mirages, abandoned by the fruit of the light that nerves use to satiety. In the sky spread out a few moves, clouds like consolations. Events have turned in a lamp gesture the last illusions. I am gonna love you over time, with this time which comprises. Patiently. The disposition of mind is to keep the animal in us.