Tuesday, June 1, 2010

a sketch

In the blazing May-mood sun, maroonish leaves were falling, hitting the ground in a flurry but in no hurry. Smells of fresh facturas spilled into the streets of Mitre and Salguero, caught by the chilly noses of whistling passersby. With the chill in the air and a late afternoon cup of maté sitting impatiently on the kitchen table at home, a steady, swift walking pace filled the oh-so-skinny legs of Florencia Lucci.

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