Ola Pawłowska

10.05.2012 in21:17 in Creative,photoart, People -->


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Along with the smell of tobacco on the fingers of light rises again, murmuring babble, shaking the dark meeting, I know that my lips were looking for those hidden, this single clamping lip in his dismay, the blazing pink and brown contour, which gave you my farthest trip. And how it always happens, in that delirium did not feel it, now what brings me your memory by ethereal smell of tobacco, but this smell of moss, this shadowy secret splendor found its way, from the necessary, immediate oblivion, the game of unspeakable body, which awareness messages, what moves the deepest, inexorable mechanisms of fire. You were neither taste nor smell, your deepest hidden country expressed itself as an image and feel, and just today, tobacco stained finger accidentally when I return, which is erected on you to demand the keys to open a free passage to cross the sweet episode, the where your sorrow was making the last defensive line, then you understood and there was no regret, I gave back to the city of your innermost skin of the other items, although the extraordinary sieges, negotiations, battles. In this illusory vanilla scent, which now stains my finger awakens pity. I close my eyes and sigh in the past the smell of your body, I would not open them on the “now” in which I read and smoke, and I think I’m still alive.