Sunday morning, bright blue so violently that the rest is black, dense buds with a few clouds that float so slowly is imperceptible displacement, indifferent to the light wind that feels that turnbacks awnings and my reflex mount the large turtleneck sweater for my on my chin.
The ladies of Maya, in Ducastel (I wonder what happens to the coach and when I have new frames that should be ready for over a week), exhibit blessed and their extreme roundness and persuade me to accept the kilo-won and save.
Small floral arrangements scattered throughout the city are not yet at their best,
but the branches of the trees vaguely sketch the birth of new wood, or at least I think so.
I'll get potatoes and other impedimenta to my overweight and not at Carrefour Halles (too bad it will be frozen shells and not real fish) to be able to join cologne for cooking and candy industry infamous for my taste regressive.
flowers instead of the clock are a little more wiry, and my mood improves.
but I break my nose at the Vaucluse area, where I wanted to go because I realized that Friday night was the time of the winter dance, and that If my slight lack of pesetas and true desire makes me draw a line on shows at Thor, and even Mauriere Benoit XII (seen two out of three) and drama of winter, there may be one in Dom and three to the White Penitents certainly would like to see (and too bad for internships too expensive, too late, out of my physical abilities now, although an introduction to Butoh would have sorely tempted)
When I vowed to spend Monday afternoon, I tumbled into the cave.
lunch, nap, wake up dazed and ground, not much more than a little guilty laziness. France-Musique with fluctuating attention, beginning of a thriller and abandonment because her writing makes me despair, shared between the beginning of another that catches my attention skillfully on stories that, a priori, should not have me interest, but that stick well to my total vacancy and are loosely written, with a little tenderness, irony of beautiful outfit ... and over the events in Libya to the world. I drag myself out a paragraph for the convoy glossolalists http://leconvoidesglossolales.blogspot.com/ and I draw upon two former
When they advanced in the side street, past the facades noble or dramatic, the row of ordinary houses, or really small or sufficiently detailed to show a significant affluence, the estate proved too long for my taste, whenever I walked up , was never dull, and against the white house Paul clung to a façade, same proportions, a pink slightly incongruous, reminder of pretentious "villas" of the coastal suburbs, but a little past stunned, not cut in too shocking, and his door also buried in the old wall thicker than that of previous facades, stretching height which gave him the look of touching a young lanky, she was painted a soft gray blue candid under a vaguely decorative fanlights .
February 17
Faced with three simple houses that I assumed of the late 18th century, after the mansion, the only shop in the small street occupied the ground floor of a house reborn, almost Gothic, half-restored, blackened by age, keeping track of destruction of sculptures, showing off its decrepitude, and its actual strength and solidity, playing like an unshaven chin always, and the entourage of the small door that gave access to the staircase and floors, had farms discrete and moldings.
February 19
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