last login 25.03.2010
Created 3 years ago
The air is moist, distinctively humid of the electric discharge of bodies dancing their soul to the music devil. It might be raining outside but he watches the sunrise through a peephole, sitting on a green chair humming, running his fingers on the turntable.
In fact, it is snowing outside, freezing soliloquy, lonely amongst the crowd surrounding him. He reaches for the fruit she is offering him, gently peels it, smiles back. Sure, you can pick what the next three minutes will hold.
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|La censure du général de Gaulle (Original Mix)|