Is not the most erotic part of the body wherever the clothing affords a glimpse?
Physically, the Ventoux is dreadful. Bald, it's the spirit of Dry: Its climate (it is much more an essence of climate than a geographic place) makes it a damned terrain, a testing place for heroes, something like a higher hell.
Why is it better to last than to burn?
Every photograph is a certificate of presence.
All of a sudden it didn't bother me not being modern.
Are not couturiers the poets who, from year to year, from strophe to strophe, write the anthem of the feminine body?