Everything is accelerated and the that is today, it is seven hour and thirty, they are all here. Everyone knows what he must do, the day will be long for the first harvest of the new Master of the Clos of the Grisette. Stéphane look at the sky, it feels like a loving gaze on him. Who is not sleeping can sit at the side of the dormant linen; in the den of the night, near the marmot asleep, he may find the sleep. Outside, when running very far, furibond, the wind passes through the garden. Loudly. It is very agitated, as pursued by an invisible enemy. It intends, it bringuesouffle frappavaude and on trees, shaking the branches and tournirachant leaves of all its forces. It courvole from one to the other, bouscachoque everything on its passage, without sarlitude. It invites blowing then returns, tournallant in every sense. It is everywhere. It even happens to berdancer around the house. As a crisis, it ravaude on the roof, froustule tiles, without success. He is getting excited as long as it starts to touffrioler the fire in the fireplace, glows the embers in siffleronnant as a monster in a large anger. It is terrible. Nothing seems able to soothe it. You feel it come and go of all shares. Little by little, the night arrives, without noise, tries to install discreetly in the garden. It continues despite everything to éclagiter, always in fury. Long time even in the black, it goes brouscogner, before calming... It was heard. This evening, the canola fields, then the bare land, then the green grass of the young shoots of cereals, a spot, a few dark traits of a Grove, a roof, are succeeding. Jérôme loved the colors. He thought that the speed turned the landscapes in the impressionist paintings. At this time of the year especially, the shades without mixture is interfered a little by scrolling through the windshield. Yellow rapeseed. He had approved the principle to abandon the billions of shades of daily life to become a red, or a blue, a silhouette green in a table of Bonnard. This idea did smile. He saw a tractor on his right hand, who had just Cherisy. At the crossing the tractor was still far away. Before the wood of Marsauceux he returned in the second because the fatigued rotating a room in the rear suspension of Ford. At every turn he had to wait to a pinking, to a creaking, including Jérôme feared that he announced a definitive subsidence of the rear axle. Become full color in a canvas of Pont Aven. It would be based to feel color. Jérôme drove the daydream of a sigh. "Hollow dream of shit", is he says, "You're only a dream hollow." He was more attentive in approaching silos to corn, near the equestrian center, who announced the intersection with the road from Marchezais. Track free. What purchase Martine had it loaded this morning? Martine. In a yawn, without almost loosen the teeth, nor to return to him, baveuse of sleep... That wanted that it buys ? Little importance since in any manner he had forgotten. The image of poppies doting in Happy spots a hillside "chrome yellow" and a little girl came in overprinting on its retina to that of a new field of rapeseed... There was an umbrella... Amelie and Rémi the waited certainly. It should invent a history of crocodile or of prehistoric animals, and to respond to their funny questions. Jérôme smiles in imagining that it raconterait the history of the little girl in the umbrella which hurtling between the poppies in this table of Manet? Of Monet? In the old career of Ecluzelle, on the artificial lake a windsurfing evolved. Jérôme reached the valley. The Eure seemed returned to its level of the season. He crossed the Mesnil-Ponceau, almost at the Not in order to avoid some unfortunate head-to-head with one of these large gear that the farmers use of Beauce. Before returning home he had to stop to the village in order to make a provision for tobacco. The man, as emerged from the wall, after a few hesitant steps, seemed to jump to the side on the hood of the Ford. Despite the precipitation of Jérôme to overwrite the brake pedal the car is not stopped that after having struck violently the closure of dry stone of a small garden. His hands remained clinging to the steering wheel. The seat belt had compressed the thorax and he had a pain in the left-hand side. His foot was going and came on the brake pedal fully soft. There had not been a Cree, almost no noise. It had reduced its appearance before the entry of the village, the shock of the wheels on the sidewalk still had lowered the speed of the car, and the violence of the shock had led to its immediate stop and without jolt. The man was between the Ford and the stone wall. He looked Jérôme of a look that with the death had lost any expressiveness. His sweater Green was torn. The man stood motionless on its mount. The torso proud, the head high, its black eyes fixed a invisible point toward the horizon. A light breeze raised his long hair of ebony which floated freely, touching its naked back. He expected, quiet and safe. By the time, the horse manifested his impatience and hitting the dry land with its hoof. The flat of the right hand, the man stroked the neckline of the beast in a gesture reassuring but farm. He whispered: "The time is not yet ripe". The man and the horse resumed their waiting immobile, petrified watchmen on the Butte which dominated the plain. The time was undecided, mid-way between dreams and reality. In ambush in the distant, a dark line announced the next agony of the day. An army of small white clouds fled to the west. Docile Sheep and fearful, they finished their race In is being bunched pell-mell at the end of the sky where the shadow that ascended the swallowed up. Behind them, the blue of the sky became more deep, more heavy with the night that came. The tall grasses which had bowed downward Under the overwhelming heat of the afternoon, redressing, breathed again, ondulaient under the first breath of the evening, throwing to the face of the Nascent darkness shards of yellows and greens, the shimmer of a fabric of silk. The man plissait the eyes. He sought in the failover of the horizon a sign, omen. Nostrils are dilataient then pinçaient in a regular alternation. It sniffed the smells, sorted, trying to detect a perfume, was Everything is accelerated and the that is today, it is seven hour and thirty, they are all here. Everyone knows what he must do, the day will be long for the first harvest of the new Master of the Clos of the Grisette. Stéphane look at the sky, it feels like a loving gaze on him. Who is not sleeping can sit at the side of the dormant linen; in the den of the night, near the marmot asleep, he may find the sleep. Outside, when running very far, furibond, the wind passes through the garden. Loudly. It is very agitated, as pursued by an invisible enemy. It intends, it bringuesouffle frappavaude and on trees, shaking the branches and tournirachant leaves of all its forces. It courvole from one to the other, bouscachoque everything on its passage, without sarlitude. It invites blowing then returns, tournallant in every sense. It is everywhere. It even happens to berdancer around the house. As a crisis, it ravaude on the roof, froustule tiles, without success. He is getting excited as long as it starts to touffrioler the fire in the fireplace, glows the embers in siffleronnant as a monster in a large anger. It is terrible. Nothing seems able to soothe it. You feel it come and go of all shares. Little by little, the night arrives, without noise, tries to install discreetly in the garden. It continues despite everything to éclagiter, always in fury. Long time even in the black, it goes brouscogner, before calming... It was heard. This evening, the canola fields, then the bare land, then the green grass of the young shoots of cereals, a spot, a few dark traits of a Grove, a roof, are succeeding. Jérôme loved the colors. He thought that the speed turned the landscapes in the impressionist paintings. At this time of the year especially, the shades without mixture is interfered a little by scrolling through the windshield. Yellow rapeseed. He had approved the principle to abandon the billions of shades of daily life to become a red, or a blue, a silhouette green in a table of Bonnard. This idea did smile. He saw a tractor on his right hand, who had just Cherisy. At the crossing the tractor was still far away. Before the wood of Marsauceux he returned in the second because the fatigued rotating a room in the rear suspension of Ford. At every turn he had to wait to a pinking, to a creaking, including Jérôme feared that he announced a definitive subsidence of the rear axle. Become full color in a canvas of Pont Aven. It would be based to feel color. Jérôme drove the daydream of a sigh. "Hollow dream of shit", is he says, "You're only a dream hollow." He was more attentive in approaching silos to corn, near the equestrian center, who announced the intersection with the road from Marchezais. Track free. What purchase Martine had it loaded this morning? Martine. In a yawn, without almost loosen the teeth, nor to return to him, baveuse of sleep... That wanted that it buys ? Little importance since in any manner he had forgotten. The image of poppies doting in Happy spots a hillside "chrome yellow" and a little girl came in overprinting on its retina to that of a new field of rapeseed... There was an umbrella... Amelie and Rémi the waited certainly. It should invent a history of crocodile or of prehistoric animals, and to respond to their funny questions. Jérôme smiles in imagining that it raconterait the history of the little girl in the umbrella which hurtling between the poppies in this table of Manet? Of Monet? In the old career of Ecluzelle, on the artificial lake a windsurfing evolved. Jérôme reached the valley. The Eure seemed returned to its level of the season. He crossed the Mesnil-Ponceau, almost at the Not in order to avoid some unfortunate head-to-head with one of these large gear that the farmers use of Beauce. Before returning home he had to stop to the village in order to make a provision for tobacco. The man, as emerged from the wall, after a few hesitant steps, seemed to jump to the side on the hood of the Ford. Despite the precipitation of Jérôme to overwrite the brake pedal the car is not stopped that after having struck violently the closure of dry stone of a small garden. His hands remained clinging to the steering wheel. The seat belt had compressed the thorax and he had a pain in the left-hand side. His foot was going and came on the brake pedal fully soft. There had not been a Cree, almost no noise. It had reduced its appearance before the entry of the village, the shock of the wheels on the sidewalk still had lowered the speed of the car, and the violence of the shock had led to its immediate stop and without jolt. The man was between the Ford and the stone wall. He looked Jérôme of a look that with the death had lost any expressiveness. His sweater Green was torn. The man stood motionless on its mount. The torso proud, the head high, its black eyes fixed a invisible point toward the horizon. A light breeze raised his long hair of ebony which floated freely, touching its naked back. He expected, quiet and safe. By the time, the horse manifested his impatience and hitting the dry land with its hoof. The flat of the right hand, the man stroked the neckline of the beast in a gesture reassuring but farm. He whispered: "The time is not yet ripe". The man and the horse resumed their waiting immobile, petrified watchmen on the Butte which dominated the plain. The time was undecided, mid-way between dreams and reality. In ambush in the distant, a dark line announced the next agony of the day. An army of small white clouds fled to the west. Docile Sheep and fearful, they finished their race In is being bunched pell-mell at the end of the sky where the shadow that ascended the swallowed up. Behind them, the blue of the sky became more deep, more heavy with the night that came. The tall grasses which had bowed downward Under the overwhelming heat of the afternoon, redressing, breathed again, ondulaient under the first breath of the evening, throwing to the face of the Nascent darkness shards of yellows and greens, the shimmer of a fabric of silk. The man plissait the eyes. He sought in the failover of the horizon a sign, omen. Nostrils are dilataient then pinçaient in a regular alternation. It sniffed the smells, sorted, trying to detect a perfume, was Everything is accelerated and the that is today, it is seven hour and thirty, they are all here. Everyone knows what he must do, the day will be long for the first harvest of the new Master of the Clos of the Grisette. Stéphane look at the sky, it feels like a loving gaze on him. Who is not sleeping can sit at the side of the dormant linen; in the den of the night, near the marmot asleep, he may find the sleep. Outside, when running very far, furibond, the wind passes through the garden. Loudly. It is very agitated, as pursued by an invisible enemy. It intends, it bringuesouffle frappavaude and on trees, shaking the branches and tournirachant leaves of all its forces. It courvole from one to the other, bouscachoque everything on its passage, without sarlitude. It invites blowing then returns, tournallant in every sense. It is everywhere. It even happens to berdancer around the house. As a crisis, it ravaude on the roof, froustule tiles, without success. He is getting excited as long as it starts to touffrioler the fire in the fireplace, glows the embers in siffleronnant as a monster in a large anger. It is terrible. Nothing seems able to soothe it. You feel it come and go of all shares. Little by little, the night arrives, without noise, tries to install discreetly in the garden. It continues despite everything to éclagiter, always in fury. Long time even in the black, it goes brouscogner, before calming... It was heard. This evening, the canola fields, then the bare land, then the green grass of the young shoots of cereals, a spot, a few dark traits of a Grove, a roof, are succeeding. Jérôme loved the colors. He thought that the speed turned the landscapes in the impressionist paintings. At this time of the year especially, the shades without mixture is interfered a little by scrolling through the windshield. Yellow rapeseed. He had approved the principle to abandon the billions of shades of daily life to become a red, or a blue, a silhouette green in a table of Bonnard. This idea did smile. He saw a tractor on his right hand, who had just Cherisy. At the crossing the tractor was still far away. Before the wood of Marsauceux he returned in the second because the fatigued rotating a room in the rear suspension of Ford. At every turn he had to wait to a pinking, to a creaking, including Jérôme feared that he announced a definitive subsidence of the rear axle. Become full color in a canvas of Pont Aven. It would be based to feel color. Jérôme drove the daydream of a sigh. "Hollow dream of shit", is he says, "You're only a dream hollow." He was more attentive in approaching silos to corn, near the equestrian center, who announced the intersection with the road from Marchezais. Track free. What purchase Martine had it loaded this morning? Martine. In a yawn, without almost loosen the teeth, nor to return to him, baveuse of sleep... That wanted that it buys ? Little importance since in any manner he had forgotten. The image of poppies doting in Happy spots a hillside "chrome yellow" and a little girl came in overprinting on its retina to that of a new field of rapeseed... There was an umbrella... Amelie and Rémi the waited certainly. It should invent a history of crocodile or of prehistoric animals, and to respond to their funny questions. Jérôme smiles in imagining that it raconterait the history of the little girl in the umbrella which hurtling between the poppies in this table of Manet? Of Monet? In the old career of Ecluzelle, on the artificial lake a windsurfing evolved. Jérôme reached the valley. The Eure seemed returned to its level of the season. He crossed the Mesnil-Ponceau, almost at the Not in order to avoid some unfortunate head-to-head with one of these large gear that the farmers use of Beauce. Before returning home he had to stop to the village in order to make a provision for tobacco. The man, as emerged from the wall, after a few hesitant steps, seemed to jump to the side on the hood of the Ford. Despite the precipitation of Jérôme to overwrite the brake pedal the car is not stopped that after having struck violently the closure of dry stone of a small garden. His hands remained clinging to the steering wheel. The seat belt had compressed the thorax and he had a pain in the left-hand side. His foot was going and came on the brake pedal fully soft. There had not been a Cree, almost no noise. It had reduced its appearance before the entry of the village, the shock of the wheels on the sidewalk still had lowered the speed of the car, and the violence of the shock had led to its immediate stop and without jolt. The man was between the Ford and the stone wall. He looked Jérôme of a look that with the death had lost any expressiveness. His sweater Green was torn. The man stood motionless on its mount. The torso proud, the head high, its black eyes fixed a invisible point toward the horizon. A light breeze raised his long hair of ebony which floated freely, touching its naked back. He expected, quiet and safe. By the time, the horse manifested his impatience and hitting the dry land with its hoof. The flat of the right hand, the man stroked the neckline of the beast in a gesture reassuring but farm. He whispered: "The time is not yet ripe". The man and the horse resumed their waiting immobile, petrified watchmen on the Butte which dominated the plain. The time was undecided, mid-way between dreams and reality. In ambush in the distant, a dark line announced the next agony of the day. An army of small white clouds fled to the west. Docile Sheep and fearful, they finished their race In is being bunched pell-mell at the end of the sky where the shadow that ascended the swallowed up. Behind them, the blue of the sky became more deep, more heavy with the night that came. The tall grasses which had bowed downward Under the overwhelming heat of the afternoon, redressing, breathed again, ondulaient under the first breath of the evening, throwing to the face of the Nascent darkness shards of yellows and greens, the shimmer of a fabric of silk. The man plissait the eyes. He sought in the failover of the horizon a sign, omen. Nostrils are dilataient then pinçaient in a regular alternation. It sniffed the smells, sorted, trying to detect a perfume, was Everything is accelerated and the that is today, it is seven hour and thirty, they are all here. Everyone knows what he must do, the day will be long for the first harvest of the new Master of the Clos of the Grisette. Stéphane look at the sky, it feels like a loving gaze on him. Who is not sleeping can sit at the side of the dormant linen; in the den of the night, near the marmot asleep, he may find the sleep. Outside, when running very far, furibond, the wind passes through the garden. Loudly. It is very agitated, as pursued by an invisible enemy. It intends, it bringuesouffle frappavaude and on trees, shaking the branches and tournirachant leaves of all its forces. It courvole from one to the other, bouscachoque everything on its passage, without sarlitude. It invites blowing then returns, tournallant in every sense. It is everywhere. It even happens to berdancer around the house. As a crisis, it ravaude on the roof, froustule tiles, without success. He is getting excited as long as it starts to touffrioler the fire in the fireplace, glows the embers in siffleronnant as a monster in a large anger. It is terrible. Nothing seems able to soothe it. You feel it come and go of all shares. Little by little, the night arrives, without noise, tries to install discreetly in the garden. It continues despite everything to éclagiter, always in fury. Long time even in the black, it goes brouscogner, before calming... It was heard. This evening, the canola fields, then the bare land, then the green grass of the young shoots of cereals, a spot, a few dark traits of a Grove, a roof, are succeeding. Jérôme loved the colors. He thought that the speed turned the landscapes in the impressionist paintings. At this time of the year especially, the shades without mixture is interfered a little by scrolling through the windshield. Yellow rapeseed. He had approved the principle to abandon the billions of shades of daily life to become a red, or a blue, a silhouette green in a table of Bonnard. This idea did smile. He saw a tractor on his right hand, who had just Cherisy. At the crossing the tractor was still far away. Before the wood of Marsauceux he returned in the second because the fatigued rotating a room in the rear suspension of Ford. At every turn he had to wait to a pinking, to a creaking, including Jérôme feared that he announced a definitive subsidence of the rear axle. Become full color in a canvas of Pont Aven. It would be based to feel color. Jérôme drove the daydream of a sigh. "Hollow dream of shit", is he says, "You're only a dream hollow." He was more attentive in approaching silos to corn, near the equestrian center, who announced the intersection with the road from Marchezais. Track free. What purchase Martine had it loaded this morning? Martine. In a yawn, without almost loosen the teeth, nor to return to him, baveuse of sleep... That wanted that it buys ? Little importance since in any manner he had forgotten. The image of poppies doting in Happy spots a hillside "chrome yellow" and a little girl came in overprinting on its retina to that of a new field of rapeseed... There was an umbrella... Amelie and Rémi the waited certainly. It should invent a history of crocodile or of prehistoric animals, and to respond to their funny questions. Jérôme smiles in imagining that it raconterait the history of the little girl in the umbrella which hurtling between the poppies in this table of Manet? Of Monet? In the old career of Ecluzelle, on the artificial lake a windsurfing evolved. Jérôme reached the valley. The Eure seemed returned to its level of the season. He crossed the Mesnil-Ponceau, almost at the Not in order to avoid some unfortunate head-to-head with one of these large gear that the farmers use of Beauce. Before returning home he had to stop to the village in order to make a provision for tobacco. The man, as emerged from the wall, after a few hesitant steps, seemed to jump to the side on the hood of the Ford. Despite the precipitation of Jérôme to overwrite the brake pedal the car is not stopped that after having struck violently the closure of dry stone of a small garden. His hands remained clinging to the steering wheel. The seat belt had compressed the thorax and he had a pain in the left-hand side. His foot was going and came on the brake pedal fully soft. There had not been a Cree, almost no noise. It had reduced its appearance before the entry of the village, the shock of the wheels on the sidewalk still had lowered the speed of the car, and the violence of the shock had led to its immediate stop and without jolt. The man was between the Ford and the stone wall. He looked Jérôme of a look that with the death had lost any expressiveness. His sweater Green was torn. The man stood motionless on its mount. The torso proud, the head high, its black eyes fixed a invisible point toward the horizon. A light breeze raised his long hair of ebony which floated freely, touching its naked back. He expected, quiet and safe. By the time, the horse manifested his impatience and hitting the dry land with its hoof. The flat of the right hand, the man stroked the neckline of the beast in a gesture reassuring but farm. He whispered: "The time is not yet ripe". The man and the horse resumed their waiting immobile, petrified watchmen on the Butte which dominated the plain. The time was undecided, mid-way between dreams and reality. In ambush in the distant, a dark line announced the next agony of the day. An army of small white clouds fled to the west. Docile Sheep and fearful, they finished their race In is being bunched pell-mell at the end of the sky where the shadow that ascended the swallowed up. Behind them, the blue of the sky became more deep, more heavy with the night that came. The tall grasses which had bowed downward Under the overwhelming heat of the afternoon, redressing, breathed again, ondulaient under the first breath of the evening, throwing to the face of the Nascent darkness shards of yellows and greens, the shimmer of a fabric of silk. The man plissait the eyes. He sought in the failover of the horizon a sign, omen. Nostrils are dilataient then pinçaient in a regular alternation. It sniffed the smells, sorted, trying to detect a perfume, was Everything is accelerated and the that is today, it is seven hour and thirty, they are all here. Everyone knows what he must do, the day will be long for the first harvest of the new Master of the Clos of the Grisette. Stéphane look at the sky, it feels like a loving gaze on him. Who is not sleeping can sit at the side of the dormant linen; in the den of the night, near the marmot asleep, he may find the sleep. Outside, when running very far, furibond, the wind passes through the garden. Loudly. It is very agitated, as pursued by an invisible enemy. It intends, it bringuesouffle frappavaude and on trees, shaking the branches and tournirachant leaves of all its forces. It courvole from one to the other, bouscachoque everything on its passage, without sarlitude. It invites blowing then returns, tournallant in every sense. It is everywhere. It even happens to berdancer around the house. As a crisis, it ravaude on the roof, froustule tiles, without success. He is getting excited as long as it starts to touffrioler the fire in the fireplace, glows the embers in siffleronnant as a monster in a large anger. It is terrible. Nothing seems able to soothe it. You feel it come and go of all shares. Little by little, the night arrives, without noise, tries to install discreetly in the garden. It continues despite everything to éclagiter, always in fury. Long time even in the black, it goes brouscogner, before calming... It was heard. This evening, the canola fields, then the bare land, then the green grass of the young shoots of cereals, a spot, a few dark traits of a Grove, a roof, are succeeding. Jérôme loved the colors. He thought that the speed turned the landscapes in the impressionist paintings. At this time of the year especially, the shades without mixture is interfered a little by scrolling through the windshield. Yellow rapeseed. He had approved the principle to abandon the billions of shades of daily life to become a red, or a blue, a silhouette green in a table of Bonnard. This idea did smile. He saw a tractor on his right hand, who had just Cherisy. At the crossing the tractor was still far away. Before the wood of Marsauceux he returned in the second because the fatigued rotating a room in the rear suspension of Ford. At every turn he had to wait to a pinking, to a creaking, including Jérôme feared that he announced a definitive subsidence of the rear axle. Become full color in a canvas of Pont Aven. It would be based to feel color. Jérôme drove the daydream of a sigh. "Hollow dream of shit", is he says, "You're only a dream hollow." He was more attentive in approaching silos to corn, near the equestrian center, who announced the intersection with the road from Marchezais. Track free. What purchase Martine had it loaded this morning? Martine. In a yawn, without almost loosen the teeth, nor to return to him, baveuse of sleep... That wanted that it buys ? Little importance since in any manner he had forgotten. The image of poppies doting in Happy spots a hillside "chrome yellow" and a little girl came in overprinting on its retina to that of a new field of rapeseed... There was an umbrella... Amelie and Rémi the waited certainly. It should invent a history of crocodile or of prehistoric animals, and to respond to their funny questions. Jérôme smiles in imagining that it raconterait the history of the little girl in the umbrella which hurtling between the poppies in this table of Manet? Of Monet? In the old career of Ecluzelle, on the artificial lake a windsurfing evolved. Jérôme reached the valley. The Eure seemed returned to its level of the season. He crossed the Mesnil-Ponceau, almost at the Not in order to avoid some unfortunate head-to-head with one of these large gear that the farmers use of Beauce. Before returning home he had to stop to the village in order to make a provision for tobacco. The man, as emerged from the wall, after a few hesitant steps, seemed to jump to the side on the hood of the Ford. Despite the precipitation of Jérôme to overwrite the brake pedal the car is not stopped that after having struck violently the closure of dry stone of a small garden. His hands remained clinging to the steering wheel. The seat belt had compressed the thorax and he had a pain in the left-hand side. His foot was going and came on the brake pedal fully soft. There had not been a Cree, almost no noise. It had reduced its appearance before the entry of the village, the shock of the wheels on the sidewalk still had lowered the speed of the car, and the violence of the shock had led to its immediate stop and without jolt. The man was between the Ford and the stone wall. He looked Jérôme of a look that with the death had lost any expressiveness. His sweater Green was torn. The man stood motionless on its mount. The torso proud, the head high, its black eyes fixed a invisible point toward the horizon. A light breeze raised his long hair of ebony which floated freely, touching its naked back. He expected, quiet and safe. By the time, the horse manifested his impatience and hitting the dry land with its hoof. The flat of the right hand, the man stroked the neckline of the beast in a gesture reassuring but farm. He whispered: "The time is not yet ripe". The man and the horse resumed their waiting immobile, petrified watchmen on the Butte which dominated the plain. The time was undecided, mid-way between dreams and reality. In ambush in the distant, a dark line announced the next agony of the day. An army of small white clouds fled to the west. Docile Sheep and fearful, they finished their race In is being bunched pell-mell at the end of the sky where the shadow that ascended the swallowed up. Behind them, the blue of the sky became more deep, more heavy with the night that came. The tall grasses which had bowed downward Under the overwhelming heat of the afternoon, redressing, breathed again, ondulaient under the first breath of the evening, throwing to the face of the Nascent darkness shards of yellows and greens, the shimmer of a fabric of silk. The man plissait the eyes. He sought in the failover of the horizon a sign, omen. Nostrils are dilataient then pinçaient in a regular alternation. It sniffed the smells, sorted, trying to detect a perfume, was