are rows and rows of clothes hanging.
what I see, I mean, when I look out the window of my upstairs bathroom. Three courtyards that touch, fit for a long time now, and you know it.
In one of these wires are bent, weight shirts and pants boy, faded jeans and outdated that they have worked, and women's underwear-free grace and mischief. Create a curve that seems to lap round the ground and run from the house wall to the wall of separation that lies behind it. On one side of the empty seat of a car, in the chimney of a high oven.
other wires in other homes like this that he decided to keep them between two pillars, thick skirts and tops and pants for men of all kinds. Run the wire parallel to the wall of his house, so close that I wonder what happens if the wind gets up. In front there is a garage below the collection.
My are angels.
sway my clothes, imperceptibly, moved by the warm breeze of this unusual evening month of November, are sports jerseys, overalls, shorts and long, colorful sheets of both sexes. Dance hung two steel wire as taut as the strings. On them white yellow and blue butterflies prevent him from falling down, or fly away. Joining those neighbors.
The atmosphere is quiet, calm the heat of an unusual sun laughs mockingly at the time that was yesterday. My lawn glows green, my car shines metal with him and them, dancing all the time. But so much light that it It does not seem real.
* * GiorgiaM
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