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Bucolic miasm

Modifié le : 2019/08/08

It’s not hot “for the water pump” this morn­ing (French expres­sion to tells that it’s cold as to freeze your balls). The cold, like a big ele­phant, is push­ing every­thing in the porce­lain shop. The passers-by are shiv­er­ing, some are over­dressed while oth­ers still have their skirts a lit­tle too short.

Despite the inten­si­ty of the rays, even though I had planned what it took, except gloves, to pro­tect myself well, my body had trou­ble accli­ma­tiz­ing to the change in tem­per­a­ture. In six months, we’ll talk about it again, the same tem­per­a­ture will make us sweat in our big coats.

How­ev­er, there was some­thing else that did not help to enjoy the walk : a smell, an indus­tri­al miasm that was dif­fi­cult to iden­ti­fy. I imme­di­ate­ly thought of the scent of a pulp and paper mill. In Mon­tre­al, it can’t be that. Nev­er­the­less, there were only a few leaves that were caught by the sun. The rest stag­nat­ed in the grey and ripped it apart.

Quick back home. The week is just begin­ning. I still had a lot of dreams last night about things that decent ladies don’t want to hear. Quick, anoth­er lit­tle espres­so cof­fee before going to work.

They say you always have to hope for the won­der­ful every morn­ing. There, I hope so. But already, my heart is qui­et ; that’s already a given.

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