Postcards of lost times were scattered in front of touristic eyes,
French mountains, long-lasting hours of feet stepping into the muddy season of life.
When work feels overwhelming, remember you are going to die.
Hanging on the public toilet I frequent between my espresso breaks.
Die-hard, a long gone romantisicm.
A different shade of lava rock is painting hard-walked-notes to the peak of the state, I shall roll these old tires down the drain of Valée d’Aspe, since I am into rolling in general, also into rock.
I better knock on hell’s door, just to take a look at Devil’s peak, before just before I was seduced a comfortable sit, lucky me, I was not looking, yeah I was not looking at all for something new, and pretty much satisfied with the current burning of my eyes, to be able to water.
Irrigation tales, who suffer the work, shall confront the consequences of early springtime blooming dijon mustard in my none afraid mouth to speak spices and wishes, tongue had gone wild and finger just snapped an apple pie, stuffing mouth with joy and careless atachment to he who thinks blowing wind shall cool my joie de vivre.
Stonehouse, woodwork, bitter tea, it’s all very peculiar.
Such plans, Einstien’s miracles of physics and disappearance somehow all worked out, for the patient view hunter.
On this cliff, I shall sit.
Fire, non-extinguishable..
Wind favored conditions for life.
So I shall live, just like the lava flow of this pen, burning white papers with salt and tears to revive letters into actions.
Excuse me, excuse my friend.
Evacuation has taken place, you’re first.
Regrooveable goodwill tires, à vau l’eau
