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There were some turtledoves hanging on the morningís air, the meadows passed quickly along the borders. In a certain way I asked myself why I couldnít quit to chat with the thoughts of darkness; the sounds of the body were still white, immersed in the tension of a falling in love with the heatís light. Presuppositions were so hot to make me think that only a journey could change that status. But trips were not my cup of tea and nor the far things had power on me who preferred quiet hours spent to observe trees and words, without worrying about suitcases and flights to take. There was a lovely court made of bricks and glasses framed by a turquoise iron behind the curved roads of the hill. I stood staring.

Story by:

Federica Nightingale

submitted at 12:21pm

1 August 2009

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