Deep in the lake black the intimate the call of mystery.
Accustomed to the banks the rose garden lapping with ease resistant to go further off the springs that the wind blows strangely free in front of the beast with unreasonable gulps digging dry mandibles the cupule where to grind our emotions.
From right to left the eye wiper separates the visible from the invisible under the thrill of the sky. Chubby clouds punctuate of their fat smiles the thought of the bells that the echo pierces. Riding turbaned lake scents true chance of our origin.
crumpled paper music on the rippled pond between the archangel and the murex purpurine strangulation Sunday bells sans reminder the bag is full of dandelions going against the shore she was rolling her stone. A bird passed smiling with a smile the eyebrow of the clouds.
At the Brion bistro there are no more butts just books and Cézallier herb dishes. The room is dark the layout of odds and ends let the light in through the low windows. Outside between nettle and hogweed the pedal table receives the liquor.
sleeping Messalina within the symphonies the ivy muse adorned with make-up enucleates the gray face of boredom. To the sound of cymbals and olifants the knight of Trencavel light up with a fiery sword the pack that devours him. Here no lantern point of carabistouilles according to passion just some inaugural oracle. Stay the little man to callunes subject loved by the gods with immense tenderness destined to take flight. Little man little woman turn the clock dangling their truths social and planetary in the shadow of a life of exile. In this inextricable web bruises come to term nothing to say apart from the silence. ( Ceramics by Martine Cuenat )504
At the edge of the forest life the helping life life as an offering life full of friendships the life that weaves its way and that nothing stops A square of greenery where to step such a fragile indentation than the look itself draw the curves of the future A puddle of water To have walked ahead towards the night release hope of his convenience There remains a furrow of light where a gap choir without backtracking without bone of contention a horn of tenderness in the heart.
The dog was running sur le chemin des bergèresentre les fougères accoutumées. Navré de devoir frappersuch a handsome man at the carotid. mom in front had moved away en simulation d'être pressée de rentrer.The rain was stinging and pricked the face une brume nous recouvrait. The tide was rising we could hear the surf frapper les dalles de granite. The pier was deserted a sailor in his small boat sculled firm you will see a charge ancré entre les jetées du port. ( painting by GJCG )502
At the extension of the day when the night is deep where the navigator trembles in the face of the dangers that assail him there is this light this bird that heralds the earth and the sun when knowledge is birth that the day is love balloons inflate in graceful ascent noisy torches scaring away the birds like manna in the desert when hunger grips us. Do we measure the steps to take matter of time look affair worn in place until evening ?
