out as far as my eyes there are fields where a clear path leading friendly Land Registry. A final corner and the forest surrounding the valley swallowed under it at the foot of a hill. The winter wind lashes. I pulled my collar, and my scarf to the tip of the nose. My breath, the rhythm of my footsteps, I warmed the soft tissue stuck to my lips.
Young shoots of wheat trembled under the sky of intense blue uniform. The cold Cast of fallow land which the frost has cleared the turf. Lapwings pass, hurrying, always seem so busy. The great blue heron they cross him, took his time. I see land at the bottom of the valley, where runoff water accumulates and frequent rains of the season. He is recovering after its heavy flight, rears in the approach of reeds prepared in the ditch off the road, gently laying it all stretched legs and then disappears into the tangle of brown stems.
I remember when we walked by, it was often on Sunday morning with their bells ringing off the deserted countryside. If you're gone it well you I am speaking in my beard under the scarf, death does not cancel all Presences, your place is here.
At these endless questions I ask myself that often I made you hand I know what you would say, and how. I can not imagine less accurately if this particular brilliance in your eyes when choosing silence to highlight, you'd wait, staring at me, that smile that I could not contain, but you intend to hide it, sealing our tacit agreement. Much more than my fragile assumptions slight speech, as I loved your silence. He would call again in order mechanics dark world.
You were such people who unearth doors where it all leads him to believe that there could be. After all you invented Post; other worlds after this one, that 'there was that' to grasp. Reach out to them it was already done. As these roads as a result of our footsteps. You said that everything stems from the desire to see it live, that nothing is there first, that any road is primarily a man walking towards a light that it is probably the only see. What it only depended on us to end the dreams or even want. In
the small cemetery gray walls covered with moss I sometimes go to talk to you in silence and there was raining that evening. The location is hardly conducive to joy, how to tell you that even your death makes his life?
Young shoots of wheat trembled under the sky of intense blue uniform. The cold Cast of fallow land which the frost has cleared the turf. Lapwings pass, hurrying, always seem so busy. The great blue heron they cross him, took his time. I see land at the bottom of the valley, where runoff water accumulates and frequent rains of the season. He is recovering after its heavy flight, rears in the approach of reeds prepared in the ditch off the road, gently laying it all stretched legs and then disappears into the tangle of brown stems.
I remember when we walked by, it was often on Sunday morning with their bells ringing off the deserted countryside. If you're gone it well you I am speaking in my beard under the scarf, death does not cancel all Presences, your place is here.
At these endless questions I ask myself that often I made you hand I know what you would say, and how. I can not imagine less accurately if this particular brilliance in your eyes when choosing silence to highlight, you'd wait, staring at me, that smile that I could not contain, but you intend to hide it, sealing our tacit agreement. Much more than my fragile assumptions slight speech, as I loved your silence. He would call again in order mechanics dark world.
You were such people who unearth doors where it all leads him to believe that there could be. After all you invented Post; other worlds after this one, that 'there was that' to grasp. Reach out to them it was already done. As these roads as a result of our footsteps. You said that everything stems from the desire to see it live, that nothing is there first, that any road is primarily a man walking towards a light that it is probably the only see. What it only depended on us to end the dreams or even want. In
the small cemetery gray walls covered with moss I sometimes go to talk to you in silence and there was raining that evening. The location is hardly conducive to joy, how to tell you that even your death makes his life?
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