There is nothing so delicious as watching a leaf fall. You lean against the back and feel comfortable on a park bench on a sunny autumn day, and stays there looking as can be seen above the sheet. She starts her movement as a hand and said goodbye. She is actually saying goodbye to the other sheets still have time to stay glued to the branches there like leeches. You think that the above will fall next to his bench and you may cherish the back and run his fingers through his veins all tender, but no. There is always a wind, tiny, but it is able to take it and leave one with his mouth open waiting for anything to happen.
And you see this movement as it falls with voluptuous and one imagines that this flirty girls walk like you say, look how good I am. It goes down slowly as if that would cushion the fall swing in the cement floor.
This flirtation with the air makes you feel great and want to use the time you still have to do what has not knowing that to reach the floor will be taken to the slaughterhouse where they lie all the leaves walked on or pierced by the broom sweepers job. And the mature leaf, yellow as ripe as they descend with other leaves are not looking (the sadness that I limit the world) because they know very well what their fate. No longer wants to look, there's no hope for looking. Other people just live that swing, that gasp, that last and subtle movement before arriving at his home and that is enough to be happy. In its descent, the blade rests on the hat of a woman walking her hips shaking describing figures in the air. Adding to the misery of the woman who slips on the other sheets and sprained his hat and loses his balance and the leaf vacuum is precipitated and is several feet off the bench cover the hat. I run to his aid, other men also want to shake hands with women (women are young and have your fun) and I lost sight of my blade. I look up and see another sheet that follows, but it is not the same. Each leaf is different. My sheet was unique.
And you see this movement as it falls with voluptuous and one imagines that this flirty girls walk like you say, look how good I am. It goes down slowly as if that would cushion the fall swing in the cement floor.
This flirtation with the air makes you feel great and want to use the time you still have to do what has not knowing that to reach the floor will be taken to the slaughterhouse where they lie all the leaves walked on or pierced by the broom sweepers job. And the mature leaf, yellow as ripe as they descend with other leaves are not looking (the sadness that I limit the world) because they know very well what their fate. No longer wants to look, there's no hope for looking. Other people just live that swing, that gasp, that last and subtle movement before arriving at his home and that is enough to be happy. In its descent, the blade rests on the hat of a woman walking her hips shaking describing figures in the air. Adding to the misery of the woman who slips on the other sheets and sprained his hat and loses his balance and the leaf vacuum is precipitated and is several feet off the bench cover the hat. I run to his aid, other men also want to shake hands with women (women are young and have your fun) and I lost sight of my blade. I look up and see another sheet that follows, but it is not the same. Each leaf is different. My sheet was unique.
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