Old ghosts never die. And not fade; wonderfully preserved their youth. Really, I can still see the drops of sweat, still fresh, yet distinct, against the pallor of the forehead. How is it possible? They are like drops of dew on the petals of roses Redouté. A wonder, is it? Please, please , is' shut up. I will write, really, I will. A Mother England that old bitch!
The turkish bath I was greatly refreshed and I felt so clean. But it's not really so, you know, is kind of makeup. In fact, one continues to stink. They found a way to make us look alive, but in reality we are dead. I? But of course, I was dead ... August 8, 1918. On this subject we had a good laugh, at the club, where rats ... There was one, bald, bloated, fed on corpses, one night I was placed on the chest. Made me laugh, because I had tickled her face with a mustache.
"You okay?". I ridestai with a start, without a sense of humor, to find it back in front of the turkish bath which I peered into her face. "Excuse me, sir, but I felt that it was put to dream." I hurried. I was not much time left to catch the train to Cheltenham, where my mother had gone to live in order to stay close to my sister in college.
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