Monday is combed from the sun. Easter Monday, the word reminds me of asphalt and metal engorged of souls screaming boredom. Rome these days proves the perfect lover. Walk to Villa Ada. I turn into a driveway. Flowers. Where are the flowers? Villa Ada is not the place of the petals, but the trees, shrubs, walkways without drawing, mosses clinging to the bark, is the realm of the pines, the oaks, chestnut trees, the fragrant laurels. medjugorje But no flowers, no does not open expanse of crocuses, daffodils, tulips, orchids. Villa Ada is the spring of a hunting lodge that once was real, a wonderful ups and downs of the woods D'Annunzio.
There would be good, the flowers here. Geometric compositions, spray and splashes of shade on a stave old. Nothing. medjugorje The man's hand is almost absent, medjugorje almost. If you hear the noise from the disco, the invitation to "selfie" collective between beached in the grass, that contemporaneity from fizzy drink that can break any spell. After the party, it remains the workings of nature medjugorje that makes and breaks, and maybe that's good. I shudder at the thought of what might come up Minds excelled Administration. Never dare to show a touch of vibrant color, a playful crossing of hue, a velvety texture of the petals. This is not the spring that erupts surprise in Kew Gardens in London, it would be too much beauty.
At Villa Ada there are palm trees soaring, brow worthy of a movement of the Napoleonic troops, squirrels and turtles courting, but the big picture man, that is a tangle of bureaucratic weed that emerges here and there by chance, listlessly, including limping a fence, a broken pipe walls and tattered like the sails of a brig in rearmament.
Brett was pretty darn cute. He wore a jersey sweater and a tweed skirt, and her hair was brushed back like a boy. She had launched this fashion. It was made of curves like the hull of a yacht race, and with that wool sweater you do not eluded even one.
This is Rome, his seduction is made of millennial patience, and take a soft spring and inexorable built on the intrigues of the Roman Senate, forgiven by the Church, built on the plans, cemented by the subdivision. Inside and outside the GRA, metaphysical boundary of the brick, to the cinema already sanctified.
Villa Ada offers shady canopy of oak trees, palms daggers that seem tired, but the flowers live elsewhere, are the children of imagination, cultivation of genius. I am reminded of a fleeting image, a fragment of yesterday. A room in the castle of Sissinghurt in Kent, the refuge of Vita Sackville-West, the place to write. At the center of the room magical flowers.
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