At one point, the restless little feet come off the chair and rushed into the void, the oasis left behind them a warm spring thread. Small steps armed themselves with a dress that's flying fast and evoked the almost imperceptible moan of a wooden splint to hold them running. When they had gone far enough, the little feet stopped walking, stood on their ends and stretched in the arms; Up there on the shoulders of the dress, flourished a slightly wavy hair. The arms of the woman is called curtains and a window that was a satellite. The woman floated aboard the window, staring at her, tied to the table by a thin wooden road and air laden with dust grains backlight shining.
would have liked to contemplate this scene forever. Stay there, clinging to the huge wooden leg of this third seat while in a false concurrency, sipping coffee on the second. However, on the other side of the window was orange to red, and the inevitable red to violet, and finally the deep black to let you know that she was crying.