"The summer that passes is like a friend who says goodbye to us .." Victor Hugo
A powerful storm made me awake at half past seven. It is not thunder, but it rained buckets. I lay under a sheet and felt cool fresh waves waving from the window. It was half dark. I stretched from, his right hand slipped under the tulle curtains and then to the window latch. I felt sleepy, wanted to sleep, but I could not for a while. Any giant drops beat like a hundred hammers and dawn wrapped myself to bed and the whole room. What is waiting for a week already for me? And what an ego is waiting on the last morning sleep ..?
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