Rough taste of bygone flats

I see myself blurring abrasions on the upholstery of the black leather couch with a black marker. I have the impression that it has been said that it should be done when we are bored. From a distance marker works pretty well and you cannot see that the material has been destroyed. We all contribute to the painting of the couch and it may be a bit strange. Lying on a carpet I am smelling the dust, I’m small. Black, shaggy dog wagging at the sound of a cough in the stairwell. This cough is Dad’s hallmark, which is intermitted by singing songs in fake English or carols remakes; we can’t wait to see him. Dangerous kitchen edges at the height of my head, mustard before the rain and low flying swallows, whiz swifts on the balcony, hate for hair brushes. One day battles with mirabelles and falling asleep to the sounds from outside the window, when it is serenely. A lightning hits a curved willow. Bicycle nightmare, I like only swimming. Other cracks, I’m going back to where I am.