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Why Unhappiness Is A Bee ágúst 3, 2008

Posted by herraheri in M. L'éléphant.
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Just silent. Wind is slowly humming in hot breezes through the little trees which have been planted on the right and left side of the small road in the city of a small French town: Montlucon. Summer is idle. The morning air smells of early summer-sunday coffee. On late saturday night it even rained. Rain that covered the city in the aromatic smell of rain drops on hot asphalt, red street light bulbs, the silent whistling of tires and the magic realism of flashes und thunder. Calm. An idle day, perfect. Bees are humping from flower to flower. Honey. Summerstung.

Inside the little flat summer is hard boiled. White words and black minds in a fatal martial arts battle for righteousness and self-esteem. The windows are open, blossoms awaiting the joy of summer sounds and air. Incommidity, Inconvenient. Inside, glas is dull. Dull and harmfull. Blackness is lacking every lightbeam while words once tied together struggle to unpronounce or regrammaticize. Outside, in the little French gardens, bees are unaffected. Humming and Humping.

Red. Summer has an aggressive side. Heat and violence can hurt. Honey may turn into vinegar. Salt into poison. One stitch. One try. One trial. Humming, Humping, unhappiness in flowers, honey its essence. Bees its carrier.

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