Please enter the sequence of characters in the field below. Seul la mort nous separera.

Je suis jeune, mes yeux son noisette, cheveux.

Her face painted perfectly, matted with an airbrushed contour. Slightly tugging at the black dress chosen for tonight. Perhaps tighter than her usual casual style, but she wants the attention. And though she looks like piece drawn by God himself, she feels like a scribble on a page, tossed away. Keeping an eye on the time, everything depends on this. Clicking her heels together, looking anxiously for his arrival. She makes her way home.

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The mind is the limit. So my attempt to blog from 65 days out onwards completely failed.