• Des cookies pour quatre heure.

    When I was in high school I had several travis albums, and the train was my daily duty, my own very temple, my drawing room, the sister's bed I never had.
    And sometimes, if you played Trishika, it would snow.
    Now M. moved, his two houses are not his anymore, I'll never open their doors and windows again. I have already forgotten their smell.
    The cats are away, I can't enjoy their thick fur under the palms of my hands. Hence I got no idea what I should do with them. (My hands).
    There, the weather was all mixed (up) and the living room was smelling emptiness.
    Air with nothing in it but cars passing by. Dust in my room. We had to do it all, so we did. All those papers to read and write.

    So, we did.
    Words bursting out, a lot more than ever after. I'll never be older than 17.
    T. was a name on an orange and grey screen.
    Those days are gone, somehow.
    Maintenant tout crisse sous mes paumes, des tas de rasoirs imaginés,
    on tombait de vélo sur les avants bras, c'était un chemin de gravier comprends tu,
    et des cookies pour quatre heure.
    On comprend jamais rien au bon moment.

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