Les chateaux en Espagne a la Babel Fish (or 'Why I Think Max is Mad')

Currently, in hibernation controlee, acroche after a fashion has the illusion which it still occurs quelquechose here or finally my two eyes to the eyelids terribly weighed down by the incontrolable heat which emane of these large blocks of cast iron, by intermitence, with some giclettes of white frost, corrosive without repis, these large hands degantees, open on tiny plains, those of my territory, my niche. Then for you, I look right in front of, such which is allowed to me to do it, directs, like a horse in his box, simple expressions vehiculees by the trouble of a field of vision retreci and I retranscribe, my vision, single who echappe more like front, worms of the unknown prospects, those which I liked to contemplate when one left me time of them, at the edge of a large road, or of a radiant distance, when I saw myself advancing in the unknown, carrying beautiful a costume in flax, has the shelter of the luminous rays of a star which never disappeared.

I lost my gloves in a viree of more than 72 hours, between stores of sounds and small echoppes has beer, while passing by the stirring up cellars of Red Way, or the international DJ will reconsider gloser musicalement the importance of Kick and of Snare in time reel, while supervising, well evidemment, the some giscettes has the important cosmetic beauty, a farandole of nails chatoyants will come same to type on the plane surface of my understanding. Tic tic tic, to mark of another rate/rhythm surperpose, the minutes which are egrenent in this sand glass or the sand is white, without another color, nor taste, like vodka which me brule bone, which me empeche to capture sleep and of me of to make friend, that I will take between my two large arms as you which sleep on another proeminence, certainly, well emmitoufles, with the heat, ouais, I think that you sleep like me, as I do not think, as I am unable to remain eveille, it is the night and it will never be eteindra either.