Travel To Algarve

Travel to Algarve Eight boxes in a row in the middle of a grimy room, boxes looking like each other. What’s in the boxes? The stale air of a perfumed boudoir? Or the sweet breeze of a passing butterfly? Wrapped boxes, one of them could be full of . If so, I hoped it would be horse manure, I can’t think of a sweeter aroma no addresses, though, not going anywhere soon. A man dressed in a grey storstoreroom coat in and carried the boxes, one at a time (to fill time to five o’clock) to a corner, one on top of the other no interested in what might be in the boxes, as he had carried millions of them before from nine to four. The stockroom had a window high up on the wall to stop warehoused things from escaping; what do I know? The light was fading we better things to do one can’t hang about all day doing but nothing wondering why square boxes that look perfectly identical can be so different inside. Finally, I opened a box and found myself sitting on an oak tree trunk in the valley of the naked woman, considering her full-rounded **** I looked up and saw the oak’s malevolent eye staring at me; before, I could make my escape, I was hit by a leathery branch oh, pain, make me strong I forgave the oak had been standing there for hundred years The former pope flagellated himself has been said, this, perhaps to strengthen his fading faith; but he was a charming man, so we bear him no ill will The valley of the naked woman has a hidden fountain no tracks lead to there, the landscape is guarded by thorny bushes and impotent apple trees. After twenty years in the Algarve nothing to brag about