Rye field has a house in the middle, as an island, I swim out of the melancholy Wednesdays afternoons with soil and dry straw under his shirt. Thousand generations serious farmers under me. Identical and fine boring days. We eat lunch and look distracted what we should eat to Mellis. We eat Mellis and talk about what we should eat for dinner. We eat dinner and arguing about what to write on the document list. Much work we do as well, which means three hours routine behavioral therapy with Rickard in the cool stone house. Otherwise we are just all three: Karin, Richard and me. We hang at the pool or at the parking lot away at the glass booth where you can watch the cars start. Nothing happens again, everything happens countless.
We drive around aimlessly for a weekend when Thomas comes down from the city. I lie mostly in the back seat and read, or look out the rear window on everything that we go by. Mostly churches and families on a cycling holiday, but actually the little blue house that my indecent mom used to say that I am sworn in. And then a bit later, but only a few kilometers away on a porch so Marie and I danced the allotted five minutes while we wait in a grave test. "BLANK" she says, neither she nor I understood what she meant. But that was then and now running Karin, Thomas and I just around and at one point we pick up a sweet hitchhiker by Karin scare by reciting the Marquis de Sade loudly in front of the ferry to Faro. But Karin also makes stylish capoeira moves into the gutter as a counterpart to filth.
We're talking, of course remains. Doctoral dissertation, we wish we could say. For a while we all unimportant in French, which makes me feel mentally retarded. We discuss even when we sleep, we later learned of a horrified visitor.
tack till google translate
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