On the upper deck of his mega-yacht, the gloomy
Esperantist australopithecus Hotel Licheri was laying in the
sparkling bedsheets in company of a frosted beer, a powerful spliff,
that gorgeous Sara Piccardo next to him and, as the only negative
thing, that damn requiem in background. Completely naked, glaring
beyond the stars, they chased passionate visions of love and got lost
in the oblivion of an open eyes wonderful dream. Hand in hand, they
tenderly thought of the long and dazzling Hawaiian sunsets, where the
sun lavishes its last flares with renewed force, like meaning a last
hard work before dying, but knowing to come back the next day, even
more sumptuous and radiant with joy. They thought of the warm waters
of Madagascar dampening the hot sands of the boundless beaches
accomplices of an hypothetical, unattainable adventure. They thought
of the time that would have passed before their next encounter, that
murderous time only barrier to their unrestrainable passion. They
thought and at the same time they didn’t, transported to the
eleventh dimension of climax, which didn’t represent an idea but
the attempt to catch it up it. To all that they romantically thought
when the Publisher of this book took part.
- Enough with filling up the pages of romantic
Esperantist mawkishes! To be able to sell this shit of book I demand
more detailed pornography!
Duly obedient to the Publisher, I restarted
from scratch in the next chapter.
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