Sunday, February 27, 2005
Guess where this comes from...
The memory of a certain image is but the regret of a certain moment; and the houses, the roads, the avenues are all fugitives, alas, like the years...
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Sometimes, it cleanses the soul to talk to oneself... This reminds me of an ancient Oriental myth of confining secrets to a hole dug in a tree... Will you find treasure there? I doubt it... IL DEPEND DE CELUI QUI PASSE QUE JE SOIS TOMBE OU TRESOR QUE JE PARLE OU ME TAISE CECI NE TIENT QU'A TOI AMI N'ENTRE PAS SANS DESIR Palais de Chaillot - Paris