Nyctalope and Noctambule in concert walked hand in hand under a grain of passage .
Torn up and out of use, they blended together with the brine that an unwelcome typhoon had spilled the day before on the avenue occult schemes .
Able to take sides when the day would come, one by too many sticks, the other by summons to grace Divine, they forced those around them to leave their reserve to, at force of blows of mist tubes, open the lips of a chafouin sun .
A gull wept as it skimmed the mainmast of the schooner . The slowly assuming clouds moved in the uncreated of the situation .
Not bothering with humanistic thoughts Nyctalope and Noctambule urged unreason to be only executors discrete of the great work, busy with laser shots transforming small gesturing figurines of childhood in sheaves of colorful shards .
Sarabandes, noise of doors slamming, soft blisters pierced by the distaff, ranting belching out of throats to the agony ; everything was ready to hug more before the cold of the night .
This is how Nyctalope and Noctambule said on the seafront to cloud your brain, while spotting in the flight of seagulls, wise messengers left to suit by a few wreckers, the wriggling prayer of endless days .
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