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The change of season is inconclusive and incoherent.
The sun burns and we lock ourselves seduced, shutters half down, fleeting lovers, dark sunglasses at breakfast.
I keep betting on dancing all night, with shades and colors.
We enjoy everything, books get wet, the cars are full of sand, the fan whisper.
We hurry the intensity, the life, the rhythms.
Still my golden skin, still its captive smell, still the salt in my legs, still the quite feeling.
And suddenly all looks like an illusion, when cowardly autumn appears.

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