Panorama d. On a august day Essay

White moonlight day. The sun hiding in the cloudy clouds of August as the dustless white dust, sabotates the morning freshness. Tents with open shelter, like leaping birds.

The terrible vapor wanders along with the wind in the D. As if it follows me as a rabid dog. In search of books in the Bölninists here. Sweat covers my eyes, blood flows from my nose, brain's menstruation. 1 to 0 for the heat. He pulled blood from the nose.

Cold bath. Aristotle's fresh poetics, Camus's fresh noble speech on the bed. Newly-made. And my window of the world. Grill the guinea pig over the neck. In the endless space over the ex-marsh the blackened sky. Thunder. The lightnings have a rhythm of their own, their hallucinant blitze and dust in the eye. All clouds in the air. The crazy wind aerodynamics that splits and splits into my ribs. Bag in the air. Many bags in the air without a certain direction here. Kids playing in the neighborhood. Parents hanging children from balconies, star-shaped scheme. Large and rare rain drops from the ground the aroma of damp soil in August. From here, everything looks at other dimensions. A girl walking in black dress on white skin, with her blond hair now in search of natural color. Looks pregnant. Ready for Mom. The same hair. The same body enlarged by the time it feeds on eating.

Another woman leaned forward in order not to face that furtunal approaching. Extremely healthy, natural black chocolate, with a typical blaze of her breasts, aesthetically pleasing to paint, as if.

The air feels too crowded. A building-style building with its loud noises like a metal bandage that clings deeply around its head.

Pupils, bags, letters, voices, fly and air keeps weight.

The hail began.

I get to write this out lying but I got a sleep ...

...

From the entrance I walked through the rain. Shirts dampened with warm spots, shoes that plucked and legs that lather beneath the August rain.

One in the road that trampling gas with his car at 200",000 km / h, whispers to where, toward P.'s mother. Flooded roads. People with a wet bush surprised.

The magical aroma of the earth under the rain, the scent of trees, the leaves have filled the streets from the fury of the hail as if it were autumn.

The trees show their true scent, that secret, their magical essence, just after the rain. The girl walking. The girl coming back from wet wet porridge. The girl with shorts, all the same, the same fashion fashion this summer, thighs look different after the rain. Without the sunburnt, heat effect, they look unblemished, everyday flesh, as natural and as simple as the earth itself.

The air, this air so clean, free, fills the lungs full of balloons ready to rise in the air.

Camus's Aristotle, what a horrible, senseless literary double! Go Dafina Zeqiri! ... Do not Nal, battle the night in the night, but go on higher and higher again! ... Higher in Ajer! Duffy rocks.

Literature is boring. Rhythm, beat, the beat is great! I want to become a DJ. Up, in the air ... air ... air ...

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