J'écris avec des couleurs
Fresh Antipasto: Sweet cheeks don't say "babe".
Dappled shadows, dappled light. The trees blame shades of grey on each other, teasing the grass and the people who dared to walk beneath their branches. The light was golden, softened by haze. The sun hung low out towards west; it was uncomfortable to be unarmed with sunglasses, and I seemed to have lost mine.
Words come and go like speeding cars with impatient drivers, as soon as I get a glimpse of them they disappear loudly out of sight, but I am content - almost content. Words come and go like days.
Musim ni masih muda, daun-daunnya tidak lagi hijau, belum lagi emas.
J'aime l'automne; il alimente l'âme du poète.