An old thunderstorm rumbles in my head. A thunderstorm born 25 years ago. A storm at times distant, almost forgotten. A thunderstorm often deafening. Literature assured me men existed for a long time. Music taught me their melancholy preceded them. Painting whispered to me that screams can be silent. The trade of men, very fast, seemed to me vague and vain.
0.0/10An old thunderstorm rumbles in my head. A thunderstorm born 25 years ago. A storm at times distant, almost forgotten. A thunderstorm often deafening. Literature assured me men existed for a long time. Music taught me their melancholy preceded them. Painting whispered to me that screams can be silent. The trade of men, very fast, seemed to me vague and vain.
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