The banality to be inspired by the seasons even touches me, in this desert of poetry that is my brain now and forever. And 'that I have to struggle to say things that are beyond brilliant and just think they were playing weird and disjointed words. So I find myself with a piece of paper and write down as many words as I run a hurry to work, walk home, I follow the tram, and they say September, the white columns of the terrace on the river, I look at you. They say things that a beautiful way and form a splendid setting at the time that the birth but is now set so it's like to come back and die miserable letters in a row. Leave blank behind the photo, as if there were no words strong enough to describe this beautiful and odd months of autumn here in Geneva, where life in the summer is a parcel bomb explodes quickly forgotten since before coloring the city until the cold if not resumed again.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzbDUbu1lMM
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OzbDUbu1lMM
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