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Login with FacebookEntre l’air et la pierre
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The black island, an island of rock and feather. Its large conifers touch the sky and these wings inhabit it. The herring gulls have made it their domain, they watch over the stone edges. Sometimes one rises, cuts out the horizon with a clear line, then returns to land as if gravity were just politeness. The island does not speak, it simply lets the ink of its pen write in the sky.
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