Neither one nor two, I put my sweater inside out. With my oddball tunes, I use a lemon tea. While I quibble between a slice toast with honey and salted butter, I have an idea. A thought amused, mischievous wish. No more, I naturally softens. I feel it lurks around the corner, I let it annoy me, then I told him to leave. It does not really listen, then a little stupid, she goes to sleep. I really do not lose touch with reality, I simply appropriates. By taking the side roads, with a freshness and a hint of pleasure, I give myself the right to fantasize, lightly. I draw the emotion in this lemony scent. I
m'ensensuelle of trifles, a m'émoustille nothing. I tint the spoon in the cup, so that everyone knows I do not sugar. On the sly, mischievous little thought back. I merely scratched the surface. Printing to rub her secret garden on the other side of the wall and look over the wall. I will not attempt the climb. I will not ring at his door. At first I did not see it, probably because there is not. I suddenly felt a tacit agreement between myself and this little thought. But nothing to write, I measure the fragility, the evanescence ...
The lemon tea cools. The phone rings. I answer "Hello, this Columbine ..." Small
writing exercise proposed by the blog thousand hands.
Invited by Arf, or versa Was he there in ease .. or air ..
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