Omen ~ Of Thee, Creole Of Madame Of Too with the Creole island, Madame
Thee Of ~ Of Too, perfumed and of the sun, pleasant. The island is
perfumed and the sun is pleasant. The tonalities of the shadows and the
palm of the Poinciana have thrown the shadings of the palm and
Poinciana they languor on one Madame who lives here has thrown to they
the languor on one disowned of the Madame with the acclamation of the
men. I know, however, living of disowned Of ~ Warm here and the white
man under one cloud of hats, with the acclamation of the white men. The
relative face is constant with the Black Nobleman of Thee ~ Of The
Elegance that I know it, however that one ~ Heat and the white man goes
like Artemis, large, lithe, under a cloud of hats, the relative face
and when sorride, the assurance illuminates the relative glance... He
is constant with The ~ Noble of Thee of The Elegance, if in order, to
never visit The House of Glory that it goes like Artemis, large, along
the green of Loire or the sienna, Madame, like lithe, and when it
sorridete, yours loveliness, a match for our castles, the assurance
illuminates the relative glance... Inborn more humbly in a plethora of
the erudite pensions if never not visited The House of The Glory of The
Sonnets of The Hearts of Ours, O, poet ~ Who controls you, along the
green of the Loire or of the sienna, of your black ones from the Madam
of these great eyes, yours loveliness, Match of Too for our castles,
inborn, The Plethora of Too of The Erudites of Pensions of The Sonnets
of The Hearts of Purs, O, po=E8t, who orders you more humbly, than your
black ones from these great eyes. And the girl has said, not felt, you,
I cry, nor do you embrace, or understand, my words, because if Thee
felt my ones, you will know my cry, I say, It, for you. It knows that
they are alame bicco surplus a lot that I have lived during the years
of my life, the life years that I have watched the nerezza, swallowed.
Years nobody has known me. My house, Nothingness. My house, nothing but
hope, out of order, for tomorrow. The day is tomorrow. Still alive all
that have lived during the years of my life, the years that I have
watched the nerezza of me swallowed to me, nearly choking with my
shame. My house, nothing, but Hope. And the sad girl, others, not
known, not felt. You obstruct. You have strangled. They are died. My
house, Nothing. The years when nobody has known me, but I have watched
the nerezza and swallowed pride. I have lived the years of my life
more, the years in which I lived alive, more still, in the nerezza, all
that you never had. Nothingness, more still. You have taken to the ego
a lot that I have constructed from the nothingness. Inborn, me, still,
in order to say the same thing in several occasions. It is madness.
Madness and surplus still. Someone is responsible of this. He is not
me. The continuous wind of Too comes and comes and will not be
arrested. The days when I wish to arrest, myself, and not, the
continuous wind of Too comes and comes.

~ * ~