I met your mother this morning, frail old woman, mad and stinking. She had on her head, a cap of white wool, knitted hand, nine. It was already ugly and cadaverous, jade girl who never was, there are ten or fifteen years. She's always gone well, with its smell sûre.Mais perhaps it is less than before, less and less even. It seems cleaner, less confusing, younger, or is it me who changed. It reminds me of those sudden inflections of the curves, you know those who grow steadily and reach a threshold invisible, they do not cross and float for a long time on this line unexpected buoyancy or more join them. Some wrecks are long lasting and sometimes leave when the newcomers are stalled in their turn.
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