Through the window on the street, the spirit of light between dawn. In his view, my face lights and lampposts seem to die. I turn up the sound of music. Is the cold that makes her tremble? Hoarse voice so pure. The sound plank, cries and stretches. An archer who squeaks, a rope that breaks. Latest pale mist exhausting the queue, and désenlacées extinct. Those lying around, those who think and those who look back.
The sky is full of colorful scarves in flight, hair and bare arms. I shut tighter the folds of my gown. Fog on the glass. I support my forehead, it emerges. The cold embraces me. I delays the time to leave. The smell reminds me of coffee.
