English Version
gothique et romantique

Me and my dog

Publié le 14 Mai 2014

romantisch, gothique, romantique, gotisch, rêve, fantastique, fantastisch, sombre, dunkel, traum, romántico, gótico, soñado, oscuro, fantástico, romantico, gotico, sognato, scuro, fantastico, porte, eau, pierres, , eau, see, mer, cimetière, croix, poème d’amour, lettre d’amour, roman gothique, poème romantique, lettre romantique, poème gothique, gothique et romantique, larme, église gothique, mélancolique, mélancolie, nuit, night, dark, sombre, memories, souvenirs, melancoly

Me and my dog we were mislaid. In the too broad city with the streets traced like trenches. Lit with us to plug some. We plunged in apnea. Sliding ring, digressing at the point to mislay us. On bank on the bad side. Running, panting to stumble about it, we bickered.  Without us to look at. I intended it to grumble. It had so many things to reproach me. In leaves attached, me with the other irritated end. Tie, being able to strangle it. It chose to stop. In the middle of the bridge in stop. Wanting to show me. The way, to be mistaken more. The city was empty abandoned. I had not noticed it. Blown, the thrown into a panic knocking heart. I had not taken the time to listen. The deafening silence which wrapped us. On bank on the bad side. Where to go? My dog had the idea to cross. He wanted to draw me, to involve me. On the bridge towards the other end. Did I hesitate, the fear of the danger? The rain was put to fall. We plunged in apnea. Not to wet us. We ran, digressed, wandered at the point to mislay us. After turnhaving turned many times. We found ourselves on the abandoned bridge. Without chart to locate us. On the rails of the tram. Being Able to make us crush. Silence wrapped us. Wanting to protect us. One could have heard the birds fly, the cats to miaow. Sometimes one has ideas. Tired my dog lay down with my feet. Waiting until I would have decided. To cross other side. I took the first step to launch me. My dog prevented me. The alarm clock had just sounded. It was the hour to rise. The bridge became animated. The bicycles, the trams passed. We deviated. Going to walk us. Waiting until the day went away. That the night and the bridge were illuminated. Our shades amalgamated. In all intimacy. On the rails of a combined wandering. Further that black. Running up against the borders of the nightmare.

le sang de la nuit, la naissance de l'ange, decouvrez le dernier roman de steffan urell

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