This samecredi, I had my ghost sitting on the terrace of Wepler. J'm'étais ectoplasm made voyeur, banal wag that would not have denied a Captain Haddock ... it smelled strong tide. Must be said that the famous brewery Place Clichy, like a wall of pseudo friends, was full of pearl oysters without, mackerel without white wine and oils that were stale.
servers dressed as penguins like groupies languid waving their long beaks swollen with smiles and excessive flattery when serving to young Whites Chardonnays muses who dreamed of glory on pipis writings. They do not disdain old molds from which emanated a enshalimarées debauchery painted on a French manicure as a glittering bling-bling culture dripping anticipates a big bang.
The little black two fifty not deterred the hoi polloi more to come parading in Gucci truck to sample also the illusory comedy. Even Macs are asked their Pigalle bagouzes between two beer mug. And then stashed in the background, trônaient les pipleux qui semblaient bien être les seuls à paraître ne pas vouloir paraître tant ils tentaient de vouloir être. L’ostensible discrétion de leur opticdemille trahissait le jeu de dupes. Bref, la vitrine du Wepler brillait d’un argent qu’avait même plus besoin de vinaigre blanc pour se faire lustrer la couenne tant l’oxydation égomaniaque en avait bouffé le derme.
Fantôme je m’étais faite, donc, définitivement, ici et ailleurs. Une dernière fois, ne plus être qu’une morte vivante et n’avoir pour carburant que le plaisir d’être l’invisible spectatrice d’un disgusting pukes a world free world .. and then leave.
There, without being there, but mostly tired, I forgot the wildlife around me.
Before me, the place swarmed Clichy. Blue-collar city had set up galleries for the lucky winner of the public works market, a cousin of the sister of the mayor's secretary, could draw at will in the new contour. The mouth of the subway spitting waves, an endless colony calves followed docile and not the inevitable and compelling plot. In the center, wrapped in cellophane, Marshal Moncey shouted to anyone who would listen that he should resist. Not a chance! The whistles agents of disorder and volition cattle on foot or by car at rush always covered as vuvuzelas desperate voice.
A wind pushed the canvas that held him prisoner and thought through, banging his fists see. There, I swallowed my last mouthful of "White" , got up diaphanous, and myself flew to Mount up there, the Butte de Mars ...
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