BIBLIOTHECAAUGUS TANA. L is the tang on the plombqui gt citd'Ys, the Sodom drowned. Lnaissent and die very color of rock, patients as Ternell hiccups by making a poor language. It is an old tower, standing dcorn. His EmS is his feet - fell. Loved ruins of huts flanked by piles against him, with a movement drunk, sheltered from the rising tide and the wind that shaves. Ah is it a good turn, as the bells to sound culverins, solid time, an old nest of the Templars, good workers in God, they l! sacred pillars of the temple and the guard. We still feel that entering indfinissable smell stone bnite that no one ever goes. The square is a well intrieur, four bare walls. halfway up a notch warhead gives a long deep furrow Lumire. The breeze up the buzzing of a fly trap. From far away, on the walls, climb small black day: it is the stairway in the thickness of the walls on the halts are mnager of cubicles, with an eye open meurtrire on the horizon. It is our lque gteront htes. Under the cloak of stools for the man Omri, Doctor Faustus, the curRabelais, Jean Bart, St. Anthony, the Job lpreux and other former living a hole for the crickets, A torch if they watch the pic prs crmaillre; everywhere studs for attaching the shoe to match, the gearbox in salt, sausages, and the branch bnit, boots tallow es, a horseshoe for good luck. At the top of a simple lvation cathdrale, at the window gloved, we will make the single floor, platform frame of Manir bell chamber. It will mount the stairs gut or by shrouds enflchures vessel filled with a mast-head for landing. This studio. - Studio di far niente. The day laborer is volontpar the curtain of a theater in bankruptcy. In the middle, monumental table strewn with papers, below the skins. Area, Persian divans. On the walls, drapes harlequin, tapestries, leather colors, tanned sails, flags, rags sordid superb. Images of Pinal glues in tatters on the door. Opposite, a Russian pole and the kettle th. Basically, a chapel organ for musicians of Barbary, and niches for the old saints that no more fte. A large canvas on chassis for painters OPDs their garbage. SEX A boat full of hay for new dogs and friends. A cot: the philosophers above and below two small black pigs. ct, a DBiT tobacco. In space, hammocks hung like spiders' webs, among gymnastic apparatus. After a string wells crooked eye oscillates luster, true grab a collision forgpar Marchal-smith drunk and a virgin. Above, we can climb so high, it is the gallery and the collection outdoor platform dcouverte which controls below; lava grains, sweeps by tornadoes, grle by the moons. A cock rouillse gnaws empalsur the lightning rod. Small garden clogs gargoyles. At the corners on two mchicoulis bayent abme and two turrets pointing at the sky. One position will gren watcher: mt telegraph to long arms and great belfry affolque surges will wind itself in motion, in the nights cheering for the sinking.L, I want small dark windows, fence, deep in the barbican impntrables Hrissi artichokes iron door iron secret, full of nails , gun locks .. and wide open. I want the dungeon Arian quilted flowers pompadour, crowds of flowers in bloom, a canary cage empailldans gilt, mirror Murano larger than life, Crbillon a sofa and a ceiling painted by dme. For the pavement is in the air, the flneuse the dream, the gray shadow that goes fast as the dead ballad .. and who does not. Ms. Marlbrough may be:. Anne, sister Anne, do you see anything coming? - Nothing! Nothing but the hurricane feasting, the weather vane spins, the mist that drowns ... Oh revalescire the rough! Oh big lungs! lgant cynicism! forgetting that heals and the amount dlie! .. To us alone the free several, each carrying something the all sorts of other by the heavy wind that drives away the algae Scheer and empty shells. No man cliche gter the landscape, our sea and our dsert. Frre, here is your uniform: slouch hat, shirt, brown capuchin cloth pants, cloth sails, sea boots in brown leather. We're fine, go!. you, hunters, big sand and marsh, you, sailors, sea and pretty fish that eat often pcheur behold your baleinires of white cedar, good boats hisses the porch Leure stems iron. Crews are our adventure: Frre of-the-hill, raw antique drivers like porpoises, diehard cooks and maids .. Earth, earth in chaumires. You, gtez in cells nestle in the area, perched in the rigging!. You, lazy, make a book - every man has his book in the womb - and boredom rocking will look on you. Painter ficeleur, dpouille old chic. harpist! listens and shut up! Rhymer vid, here comes the hours haunt .. Suck it the air sole ..! And you're sick of life, come here to hide your head and rests on the grass sal in dsabonnement universal. ..
The Black Sun offers us poets. They have hooked, it seems, by dint of riddles without answers. They kneaded vowels and consomnes unspeakable and cursed and using magic have white hot. It is an ancient tower, standing and dehorned. Its spire is at her feet - fell. From hovels to blows in heaps of rubble flanked against him, with a drunken movement, away from the rising tide and the wind that shaves. Ah is it a good turn, as the bells to sound culverins, solid time, an old nest of the Templars, good workers in God, those! sacred pillars of the temple and the guard. We still feel that indefinable smell entering holy stone that no one ever goes. The interior is a square pit, four bare walls. Halfway up a notch long nose and deep gives a ray of light. The breeze buzzing up there like a fly trapped. From far away, on the walls, climb small black day: it is the staircase in the thickness of the walls on the drop, the cubicles are provided with an open eye on the horizon deadly. Here gîteront our guests. Under the cloak of stools for the Homer snowman, Doctor Faustus, the cure Rabelais, Jean Bart, St. Anthony, Job and the other former lepers live a hole for the crickets, they want a torch around the toe standby rack; everywhere studs for attaching the shoe to match the box with salt, sausages, and the branch blessed suiffées boots, a horseshoe for good luck. Above, a simple raising of a cathedral, at the giant window, we'll do the single floor, platform framing how to bell chamber. It will mount the stairs gut or by shrouds ratlines vessel filled with a mast-head for landing. This studio. - Studio di far niente. The day is operated at will by the curtain of a theater in bankruptcy. In the middle, monumental table littered with papers, below the skins. Area, Persian divans. On the walls, drapes harlequin, tapestries, leather-colored, tanned sails, flags, rags sordid superb. Images d'Epinal glued flaps on the door. Opposite, a Russian stove and tea kettle. Basically, a chapel organ for musicians of Barbary, and niches for the old saints that are celebrating more. A large canvas on frames for painters deposit their garbage. A boat full of new hay fucked for dogs and poets. A cot: the philosophers above and below two small black pigs. In addition, a flow of tobacco. In space, hammocks hung like cobwebs, among gymnastic apparatus. After a string crochée well out of sight, the chandelier swings, true Grapple collision forged by a blacksmith and drunk virgin. More high, so high we can go is the balcony and platform discovery command there; grains washed, swept by the torrents, hailed by the moons. A cock rusty bites, impaled on the lightning rod. One will be rigged as a lookout post: telegraph pole long arms and great belfry panic surges from wind alone will in motion, in the nights of jubilation for the sinking. Here, I want small dark windows, gratings, impenetrable deep barbican bristling artichoke iron, an iron door with a secret, full of nails, bolts army.. and wide open. I want the dungeon air padded pompadour flowers, crowded with flowers in bloom, a stuffed canary in a gilded cage, a mirror of Murano larger than life, sofa Crebillon and a domed ceiling painted by Mahomet (7th order) .. For the wreckage is in the air, the Lingerer dream, the gray shadow that goes fast as the dead ballad .. and who does not. Ms. Marlbrough can be. In solitude we are free to several, each with something there, all of the other sorted by the heavy wind that drives away the dried seaweed and shells. No man cliche to spoil the landscape, our sea and our desert. Brethren, behold your uniform: slouch hat, shirt, brown capuchin cloth pants, cloth sails, sea boots in brown leather. We're fine, go!. To you, hunters, big sand and marsh, to you, sailors, sea and pretty fish that eat often sinner here is your white whale cedar, good boats hoisted on the porch with their iron brackets. You, lazy, make a book - every man has his book in the womb - and boredom rocking will look on you. Painter ficeleur, strips the old style. O harp! listen and shut up! Rhymer emptied, here come the hours haunted .. Suck it intoxicates the air .. ! And you're sick of life, come here to hide your head and rests on the salt grass in the churn universal. ..

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