The country of Alice.

As a caramel flaring odor escaping from an oven which heated too much. Honey and the milk ingredients run which you would like to lick if you could it. You have only imagination to enchant yourself, the dream to be satisfied. In front of the grids of a dark morning to the moon without a future. Cash on its round fingers these days which turn in round. Vibrate in you the call to escape through images flights. With the memory, pinched with the safe of less remorses. Evaporating until this happiness consumed to play with the forgery and truth. To enjoy some then to be satisfied some with passion exceeding the limits with the reason. Pushing back the grids, by twisting them, reducing the interdicts by crushing them. You like this caramel flaring odor escaping from an oven which heated too much. Honey and the milk ingredients run which you can lick. Because, now, beyond the grids all is allowed to you. On your fingers the cream and the leg of the cake of your delights drip. That you eat in this strange voyage at the end of your whims. Making imaginary world a ground which does not have anything any more factitious. The grasses and the mirages of your next voyages push. In one morning the fresh air twisting with the sun like a puppet. With the members held by pieces of string, prisoner of the cycle of the daybreak, its to sleep in a great ball for always. On the frantic rate of drums. The desire and the love pitch on a caramel flaring odor escaping from an oven which heated too much. Honey and the milk ingredients run which you enjoyed. While making fresh starts of the books of fairy tales. Where nothing can stop, nor never to arrive, at the end of so many artifices. Awake, the dream does not exist, nobody does not believe in the wonders of the country of Alice.