You carry the name of meadows of my childhood, you smell the thyme and lavender, heather. I hear the song of the lark when you talk to me. Your hair is blond and curly, your eyes are blue as our sky, you're the best. you love, like me, running through the fields and look for flowers and animals. You like to stop you listen to the sound of silence, the creaking of crickets. You fill your lungs odors and flavors.
Marjorie, you know what my sound to me?
Do you know what I mean when I close my eyes? Snoring
a computer, a car that passes the click of the coffee and the sound of my fingers on the keyboard. There are no birds, no perfumes, no grasshoppers. thin some trees and a lawn well mowed. Concrete houses and even no flowers at the windows. people pass and cross without speaking, people do love each other more. an old press dating back to his collar nervously, or will she be to be so hurried? and what can it do me? cars full of cars. lots of cars. I live with a clock hanging on my wrist, which reminds me that I am constantly late. Late for whom and for what? I cultivate my garden plot, jealously guarded by a fence and a huge dog. the few flowers that arrive to push do not smell, they are artificial and do not like me. However, I water them but the water is brackish, and acid, they do not like it. I never managed to grow the flowers that grow here there.
here birds are caged in the street. There are sparrows or pigeons. True, it's always that. See Marjorie
you, you're sure where you are. Do not come here. Never.
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