There is a place that brings us back to the past, to the young years where the weather is always nice in the summer, where all things are with a smile in a pretty halo with the best beautiful effect. Halo which has an umbrella roundness, which has an objectís blur placed too close, too close so that we want to forget it without for all that we can identify it. Without really knowing, all our memories are put on the table, are sorted like if some greyish ambassadors, being balmy with Eau de Cologne, landscaped a geopolitical map of our continent after the fall of little Nicolas. Sometimes it seems to us that we are kept out of stored events by our memory like a foreigner in front of the reason of the seasons. The sun is well in the South. And the strolling player dances on arcs of psychedelic fabric. He inspects the sky. Itís too warm to remember North snows all the same. And even so... A hand, a yellow balloon larks around, a hand, a smile, a free pirouette, a hand, a black and white rail unless itís a scale (but no, it isnít a scale), hands, a red towel, waves of hands. A merchant river flows into this ocean, it waters this green valley which filters the hearts. Two pretty hearts were thus absorbed by the block that shades like a vertical flight. The anguish of rust colour grates its strings. How y' a doin' ? I hope I stopped (...). We hope so touching our heads of mercury. The two hearts shout their presence in this country wetting the throats. The doctor auscultates his child who could be patient. They smile, tease both. The homeopath tickles him from all sides and takes it with his hand to have fun in the wind. The ends redden. Enjoyment and rapture slip into our aerial eyes. The taken temperature gives a good nephritic health. And our lit eyes arenít the sign that we have the yellow eye. Never, we had it. Itís too late for a bilious attack after experimentation in all directions of thirty-one yearsí standing. This magnetism is diffused in the vicinity. A steamer sails smoothly in front of our eyes, spitting its powder. And the rail reacts by a beer mouthful. Too late! The flashback is set up. The polystyrene piece has its mast with brushwood and runs to get back to its sea. Then, fireworks sparkle our eyes before love comes. Pockets know one thousand and one secrets and the treasure. The stools are born as triplets under the nascent moon that will be the balloon of our dreams or our bellies, but surely a playmoon protected by love. And what about cellar, you ask me? The cellar? Quiet place with mysteries. As large it is, it will remain too small to contain our phantasmagorias. Our adored toy is worn, we went round our territory, at least we believe that. Its finished magic no longer overawes us. And small human that we are, weíre in search of new things, in search of new experiences, in search of contacts strongly soaked in this childish magic. Do we change our ideas? It seems that the size of our ideas is inversely proportional to the stretch of our bones. What did we think in fair head age on the red tricycle? We could know to start it up first time. We made it backfired, and we got many kilometers, impetuous like... crazy and rogue horse. With a black door, we flow down the river. Now, the edges are steep too much to reach them. The current sweeps us... towards the waterfalls. You really hate my idea. You already had your back turned towards me. Wait a moment, the unity is the solution and weíll have stored the joy of the memory (hidden or blurred). The way is still long before this destination... long but pleasant, and is peppered with brave deeds accompanied by the long lamentations of two bewitching mermaids. You see, we ended up to draw alongside. Do you think that behind my paperboard hand, there isnít a flesh hand? Take my presented hand and donít make only one gesture. On the sixth and seventh of December one thousand nine hundred and sixty-seven, a quasi-naked sailor is roaming on the dock. The screwed-up image about a floating ship on the South Seas drowns sadly in his eyes. My attention leaves this cockleshell for a new play. A song from my friend (...). This one created a loaded play between cops and robbers in the days of knights, princesses and serfs. Customs change with the times. Should the aphorism be believed? We are orphan for a beer. Foreigner in our family, we arenít therefore abandoned, even if sometimes this feeling to be with no one, to be homeless in a free world submerges us. It is the second time that you greet your name. You seem happy and the same to us. That deserves well a joint broad smile.
Denis Between The Rusty Words
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