lunes, 26 de noviembre de 2012
a las
20:01
| Publicado por
imperfecta
Being far from the sea was not as dramatic as she thought at first. She just had to trade seagulls for sheeps and endless dunes for endless fields of green. Blue for grey. Still, the sea hadn't moved from its place. Sometimes she heard news about the waves, the foam, the wind that smells like salt. Random seashells getting embedded in random feet. But it was far away. And nobody wanted to pick up the remains of the shipwreck anymore.
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