some people will leave behind a trail of translucent but indelible. as the slime of snails ... raining the night, and morning after these trails are ruled by greedy and shining.
is August 9, the eve of the night of San Lorenzo. are seven in the morning and I'm hungry.
move a box of cereal very unattractive, the kind that used to be crap.
the bottom of the shelf is what looks like a bottle of champagne. how the hell did he end up there?
looks like a bottle of sparkling wine, but the cap does not have the cage ... pull it out.
no, not "over there" was put there!
has it made my mother believe hidden. in one way or shelved away in the high-eyes-away-from-the-heart.
fill the tub: hot water, oil, magnolia, bubbles.
brought the PC to the bathroom, I put it on the toilet, I will shoot the volume up: mezzanine, in the loop.
hill a white saucer on the edge of the tub, and put us in a couple of candles. I light incense
cardamom, the cones with the small iron brazier, what you bought me back in the mark home because there was upset in the history of the dinner and you had decided to yield to baseness and be forgiven by ragali ...
I open the cupboard and take the best ballon in my house, the huge, crystal. one of those things are so precious that it is not never, never used, as supplied, will remain under some collapsed after the earthquake, or to be broken in some move.
untap with anger and precision, the thud is the same every night and every morning and every drunk and dinner every Christmas-Easter-New Year-Birthday ... but this time has a funny tone to the celebration of sacred secular function ... echoes in the empty house, and falls with a thud on the bottom of a cavity that was excavated 4 hands and I keep trying to fill ... but that is always a bit 'empty
I fill the glass beyond what the etiquette would accept.
color is bright red so dark as to be almost opaque. seems to turn on brown. the glass is stained, the wine flows like resin on the walls.
is delicious!
only the French can give you carelessly wine so good ... as if you were offering a tissue or as if you were holding out the lighter.
within the tank and I drop in to wet hair and let the boiling water right into the roots. even from the brain ... to wash away many bad thoughts sad.
one hand is out, dry: a claw clinging around the cup shines in light of the one candle.
some funerals are celebrated with all the necessary arrangements ...
and then toast the empty houses.
relatives on the road.
caserta summers spent waiting for the cosmic moment of collective decision that never comes.
toast to travelers property, to the moment when I decided to treat myself to someone who was not only myself.
blowers to wine glasses, a Murano ... or wherever they are!
lost to the French Pyrenees.
and my mother ... I know more of the same palms of his hands ... this winter and that he understood that perhaps was the case of hiding that bottle. waiting for a better day.
perhaps waiting for today. is August 9, the eve of the night of San Lorenzo. are seven in the morning and I'm hungry.
move a box of cereal very unattractive, the kind that used to be crap.
the bottom of the shelf is what looks like a bottle of champagne. how the hell did he end up there?
looks like a bottle of sparkling wine, but the cap does not have the cage ... pull it out.
no, not "over there" was put there!
has it made my mother believe hidden. in one way or shelved away in the high-eyes-away-from-the-heart.
domaine de la CHARMOIS, tourayne camaisFrenchOne brought by the last bottle in his nth, last, trip to latch on earth Italic . dates back to November, November of this winter.
2007 vintage, in bo ttiglia numbered No. 396
13 degrees, serve cold
fill the tub: hot water, oil, magnolia, bubbles.
brought the PC to the bathroom, I put it on the toilet, I will shoot the volume up: mezzanine, in the loop.
hill a white saucer on the edge of the tub, and put us in a couple of candles. I light incense
cardamom, the cones with the small iron brazier, what you bought me back in the mark home because there was upset in the history of the dinner and you had decided to yield to baseness and be forgiven by ragali ...
I open the cupboard and take the best ballon in my house, the huge, crystal. one of those things are so precious that it is not never, never used, as supplied, will remain under some collapsed after the earthquake, or to be broken in some move.
untap with anger and precision, the thud is the same every night and every morning and every drunk and dinner every Christmas-Easter-New Year-Birthday ... but this time has a funny tone to the celebration of sacred secular function ... echoes in the empty house, and falls with a thud on the bottom of a cavity that was excavated 4 hands and I keep trying to fill ... but that is always a bit 'empty
I fill the glass beyond what the etiquette would accept.
color is bright red so dark as to be almost opaque. seems to turn on brown. the glass is stained, the wine flows like resin on the walls.
is delicious!
only the French can give you carelessly wine so good ... as if you were offering a tissue or as if you were holding out the lighter.
within the tank and I drop in to wet hair and let the boiling water right into the roots. even from the brain ... to wash away many bad thoughts sad.
one hand is out, dry: a claw clinging around the cup shines in light of the one candle.
some funerals are celebrated with all the necessary arrangements ...
and then toast the empty houses.
relatives on the road.
caserta summers spent waiting for the cosmic moment of collective decision that never comes.
toast to travelers property, to the moment when I decided to treat myself to someone who was not only myself.
blowers to wine glasses, a Murano ... or wherever they are!
lost to the French Pyrenees.
and my mother ... I know more of the same palms of his hands ... this winter and that he understood that perhaps was the case of hiding that bottle. waiting for a better day.
music: Squarepusher, Go Plastic, I Wish You Could Talk
photo: pfe Guig, round 1
photo: pfe Guig, round 1
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