Concentrated Foamy And Smelly Urine

On a bench 2

There is a bench on the road that leads to Cabris Grasse. Narrow and worn. Black, have been brushed by the sun and rain. An isolated bench, nailed to the edge of the pavement at a time when journeys were often on foot, where the car was not routinely used to fetch bread. A bench to get tired of walking legs, happy to be there for a moment of respite conducive to reverie, and chewing the crust of the baguette, bought a few minutes earlier. This resting place was not chosen or designed by chance. It is on the verge of a vacuum. As a modest fixed pin in the notch of the mountain between two wooded hills. For our light escapes to the extraordinary spectacle of valleys and hills which succeed wavy blue and purple, and then focuses on the mercury drop from Lake St. Cassian mound and finally, on the foothills of the Esterel at the end of the year. A bench at the threshold of the winds that rush between the gullies, slide along the meandering roads that burrow from the sea to the hinterland, then deposit the earnings of their plunder at the feet of the cul-de- bag. Sitting on the bench stunted, I lean my nose in the air. I close my eyes and forget the houses that stain the slopes, I lock my heard rumors of the circulation in my back, then I disappear under the skirts of the mountain. Corona cold resin. The wind is icy, but the pine forest below breathes a sweet smell of pepper, lime and sugar cane. I distinguish the scent of olives mature: smell of tar and wet leather. That of the humus of course, hot and bitter, because these days the rain fell in abundance. I turn my head in search of new convulsions, or a fragrant ribbon that I missed. I catch the end of a braid, the twists around my nose and discern the characteristic smell of cypress Provence subtle and striking sap fruity flavored peel carrots and cucumbers. No residue of iodine and salt. The sea breeze does not reach so far, except the day of the big yellow wind, which occasionally crosses the Mediterranean, carrying in its turn, a sample of sand from the Sahara, a flurry of shredded seaweed, and a laughing stock of fish particles dried. But at that moment, the breeze is as usual in early fall when temperatures drop slowly, so that the moisture content increases: I found an abundance of perfume chalk limestone mountains, the heavier and sticky, slightly musty, clay, because the slopes here are also formed by clays. The remugle burns scattered from time, which I note the many frayed white toupees, winding through the valleys and hills are obscured by such long hair diaphanous witches. Finally, in a discreet corner, the strange smell from the bark of evergreen oak, bitter, bitter and metallic, close to the flavor of a dark chocolate bar, which first took a blow hot, then suddenly fridge.
I shudder. The wind pierces my jacket a bit too light when the sun suddenly disappears behind a cloud. I'm cold. Discomfort and grabs my nose becomes secondary. It is time to return the stale smell of my car and continue my path. I give
with regret the bench, the wonderful and peaceful, promising to return in January, warmly clad, to breathe the scent of mimosa blossom Navy.