Chewing-gum

I'm moved; the milk is gone and the store is closed. A farmer has settled in Étaples without consulting a single brochure.

This afternoon, we'll grill a lamb skewer, and I'll read Don Camilo's little book, an orange tome full of storms that belonged to my grandfather.

The pear is melting on the side table.

In order to establish meaningful relationships, I need to communicate with the neighbors.

My back hurts; a giant wasp stung me the day before yesterday in my sister's greenhouse. He gave me a gift of pain and thoughts I can chew like gum.