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Mais, cela ne nous avance guère. Il est donc possible que la nature soit une illusion proprement humaine. Thoreau et peut-être aussi de quelques romans niaiseux de ce grand dadais de Jean-Jacques Ou plutôt pour la vie. Enfin pour les vies autre que la sienne. Mais on a tort de les juger ainsi. La mort… Fait férocement partie de la nature. Mais la mort a aussi passé une alliance avec les hommes.

Car la mort ne peut avoir signé deux pactes à la fois et obéir dans le même temps à un dessein linéaire. Sans doute est-ce chose plus complexe à représenter. On a toujours admis que la vie, la nature, la mort étaient intimement liées. Mais, le plus souvent ce sont les seuls artistes qui en parlent brillamment. Peu nombreux sont ceux qui y sont parvenus. Il est beaucoup difficile à interpréter dans la seconde.

Le sexe est une convention expresse entre un minou et un braquemart, tacitement renouvelée quand la bite est vraiment amoureuse.

Voilà qui est au mieux dirons-nous. Ses yeux faussement absents seront rehaussés par des lèvres minces mais carnassières. Du lecteur-spectateur? La nature est également présente sur la toile. Deux insectes. Un scarabée dit lucane-cerf-volant et une libellule. Ils exagèrent, les vieux paysans. Ils oublient toujours de raconter des histoires vraies. Utilisation directement responsable de la raréfaction des cerfvolants.

A priori, la mort est absente de la toile… Le sentiment est trompeur. Regardons la fille qui y est peinte. Un petit homme. Un chrétien sans doute. Toujours la même trouille de la mère? De la femme? Ah la maudite guerre des sexes contraires!

Le sexe? A maints égards. Il est acupuncture pour maigrir nuvoryn autre hypothèse séduisante. Intérieurement, elle le lorgne de ses yeux torves. Il est là. Une conclusion optimiste, en somme. Dans une vision moderne, il achète tout, et même plus si affinité. Le crâne légèrement dégarni, les cheveux teints impitoyablement lissés en arrière, des lèvres conquérantes, du botox plein les muscles faciaux, il porte ses couilles en devanture comme les vieux paysans exhibaient autrefois leurs bestiaux.

Dents immaculées, tête de vieil hidalgo et mani pulite, le populisme et la vulgarité au secours de son inculture. Une sorte de quadrupède pariant toujours sur la bêtise humaine… Il viendra donc un jour acheter la toile décrite dans ces lignes sans jamais savoir ce qui a prévalu à sa confection. First the girl… With her soft boudoir and milky breasts, which plait their faintness until the curve of a glass necklace… a Baccarat crystal… the girl with the look that never displeases.

She lifts a veil of reserve from her pinkish cheeks… She is full of life, very pretty, so pretty that she seems to have finished with her envelope of flash. She might be a pure spirit. So, it is not a story… Then art… Art defies definition… In the first analysis, art would be everything that tickles aesthetic neurons. A brain extension, apparently… unless we consider hands through which most often passes art as subjected to some fits of independence.

Art is the heaviest burden ever carried by man and yet, it attracts new disciples every day. Had it been rationalised in a little more mercantile aim, art would be the most common religion in the world. As if art lacked priests to popularize … In the last analysis, contradictory to the previous remarks, young women in love who pose naked in books or behind frames, almost always facilitate its success, not to say consecration… Nature… is to art what a chrysalis is to a butterfly… A raw material in progress… craving transformation.

Therefore, It can be asserted that nature is a typically human illusion. Let us not talk about human nature, these two words seem to join only to repudiate the original definition: nature as the ensemble of elements which constitute life including humanity and the environment in which it evolves… Human nature is an accident of History.

Man is profoundly harmful to nature. Or rather to life. At least to life other than his own. He has wrought havoc almost everywhere in the world, even if it is unquestionably more difficult to estimate his ravages in oceans than in the old good firm soil… However, we should not forget mid-ocean ridges, submarine volcanoes, vent-endemic eelpouts Thermacers cerberus and other zoarcidae… hydrothermal vents, kiwa hircuta and bacteria synthesising sulphur… We should not forget, for the odds are that men from BP, Exxon or Total are working on its disappearance, pure and simple… As to chlorophyll, a day will come when its souvenir will be available in a chewing gum flavour.

It is a fallacy that flying creatures enjoy the advantage of panache… Dragonflies, bees, beetles or glow worms are privileged to inhabit our positive insect bestiary. We are very wrong in our judgement. Contempt squares best with that what we fear.

Death… Is ferociously a part of nature. It constitutes both its final point and revival. A broken record replayed repeatedly, without growing weary with dissonances.

On the bottom of backwater, swimming in the original culture soup, nature needs a decomposing body in order to appear in all the splendour attributed to it.

But death has also made an alliance with people. Without doubt, it is more complex to represent. And when we do, it is already too late. Well then, why these recurrent caricatures of death, most often in a human form, feminine, to top it all? It must signify that man is scared stiff of women and nature, which surrounds him… Scared stiff of life in general… And his judgement is distorted by the death drive. It has been generally asserted that life, nature and death were closely interlocked.

They do it better as they are born seducers. So, they are familiar with the sensation, more or less fleeting, which gives pleasure to the head and even to the lower parts, in the proximity of the crotch.

Minstrels, painters, photographers, pen-pushers… they all tried to describe this ultimate love… love of death. Few were those who succeeded. Therefore, as all the other idle ones, they ended up writing about fornication.

Sex Depends both on the private sphere and a social contract. In the first sense, it is often a sign of love. It is much more difficult to interpret it in the second meaning. Because it refers more to the unhealthy excitement of voyeurism and the like… Sex helps to sell invalidating the power of imagination.

Sex is morose and, as always, it is the prerogative of our sad tropisms. It is a formal convening between the pussy and willy, tacitly renewed when the dick is truly in love. But as long as sex is staged skilfully for example by an artist, or in a bookit can aspire to excite a very large public. Artist Is inevitably a strange type… fascinated by the unproductive nature of death, yet capable to make it voluntarily or not his principal subject. Man is then an afflicted artist, a graphic designer perhaps… A false dilettante, yet a real lazy devil.

Ready to be exhibited, photographed, published… The canvass… I like to think that in the centre of the painting there will be a girl in love… Simply, she will change her peachy skin for a greenish mask. Her eyes, deceptively absent, will be emphasized by her thin, yet carnivorous, lips.

Her mouth will let out a breath, which will seem light to us, perhaps accompanied by words. But the veil, uncovering all the reserve, is an open invitation: this woman is ready to give herself away. Being beautiful, she is also ready to be damned, the future damnation Of the artist? The viewer-reader? I would even say that she has never been in love.

And the offering she repas minceur bureau windows of her flesh is a part of the trap. And return to the fold of hell as many signatures as possible… Oh, what a lovely brochette of damned souls. Nature is present in the canvass as well. It is, however, reduced to its arthropod sub-section.

Two insects. A stag beetle and a dragonfly. The stag beetle also comes from the world of air, but contrary to dragonflies, it is connected with the soil. The stag beetle takes us directly to the happy times of our childhood. A blessed period, when old peasants would spin us yarns. The old peasants exaggerate. They keep forgetting the real stories. For example, the one about their intensive use of pesticides and other chemicals.

The utilisation directly responsible for the stag beetle depletion. Death seems to be absent from the canvass… The impression is misleading.

Let us have a look at the represented girl. The greenish mask of this botox capilar forever liss 1kg ghoul announces a multitude of grazes, series of crisis, latent genocide… To convince us, the artist has painted one more element.

A little man. A Christian, with no doubt. And this is where we notice in surprise the pathetic trials of the little angel, the cherub urbi et orbi, to save the shrew with his papal wandering finger. Still the same fear of the mother? Of the woman? Oh, the cursed battle of contrary sexes! In many respects. Undoubtedly, he would like to give the lady much more than absolution. There is one more seductive hypothesis. The artist is present in the gaze of the woman-trap.

Internally, she scrutinises him with her baleful eyes. He is there. They are not afraid of each other. He is the only one to whom she could give herself without remission, to abandon her war dreams and ask for an eternal truce… At this point, we might believe to have reached the conclusion.

Quite an optimistic one, in fact.

Certainly, but somehow out of touch with our times… The President. In the modern vision, he buys everything, even more if they hit it off. With his dyed receding hair mercilessly slicked back, triumphant lips and facial muscles filled with botox, he features his balls in the way old peasants used to exhibit their livestock.

Immaculate teeth, the look of an old hidalgo and mani pulite, populism and vulgarity back up his lack of culture. A kind of quadreped who always bets on human stupidity… So, one day, he will come and buy the canvass described in these lines, without ever knowing what decided about its making.

Without ever knowing that by the very look at the Madonna-Trap he will be sentenced to join the ranks of the above-mentioned petitioners. Zobaczcie, kto ma lepiej, powiemy.

Ograniczona jednak do podsekcji stawonogów. Dwa owady. Artysta jest obecny w samym spojrzeniu kobiety-zasadzki. On tam jest. Wnioski w sumie optymistyczne. Méchant comme la gale, mauvais comme une teigne… mais un artiste de renom, le dénommé Jean-Honoré Dragonard, Jean-Hono pour les intimes : le roi de la chignole, le prince attitré du hansart.

Un Mozart du hachoir qui te découpait la tranche de canasson au son du clairon… Un virtuose du désossage en version crapouillot. Ah la douce bordée du canon… Elle était en train de faire sa fortune…. Il y avait bien sûr un homme derrière cet avatar. Le type en question avait pour patronyme Villain. Et il portait exactement le même prénom que le mien. Sa femme et lui étaient semble-t-il des gastronomes amateurs. Je vais vous confier les tableaux que vous aurez à illustrer. Ils ne mouraient pas tous mais tous étaient frappés.

La guerre, la plus terrible des fatalités terrestres, abattait son noir ramage sur la terre de Polandie. Une terre grise comme le salpêtre impropre à toute culture. Corps en putréfaction, charniers fumants de miasmes, râles lugubres et fracas du fer dans les chairs… un pur témoignage de haine ordinaire. Il pousse le bouchon vraiment trop loin, putain! Le baroud suscitait des privations… Mais le baroud procurait aussi la viande et levait les tabous… Depuis le début des hostilités, la viande de cheval autrefois si méprisée, interdite de consommation par la reine en personne, avait atteint des prix records.

La belle affaire. Ah, elle était belle et gironde, la reine! État qui cela sans dire, attirait les convoitises. Et pourtant du vin, elle en aurait bien bu. À ses côtés, vivait une jeune femme de seulement 15 ans sa cadette, sa propre fille, la princesse Polyandra, personnage un brin falot qui ne parvenait pas à trouver sa place entre sa lumineuse maman et le génie de son frère, le prince Bambinovski.

Le prince, parlons-en. La terrible Loumisch… Car comment comprendre autrement, le subit intérêt que cette Demoiselle L me portait autrement que par un plan secret savamment orchestré afin de me faire choir? Un jour il serait roi. Un jour il serait le chef des armées de Polandie.

Un jour il ferait la guerre… Ce jour, ô fatalitas. Le crépuscule tombait sur les mornes plaines de Polandie. La Reine se reposait dans sa chambre. À ces mots il manda les serviteurs qui apportèrent une vulgaire caisse en bois. Vingt -quatre bouteilles de Romanée saint-vivant La surprise passée, la reine fit aussitôt montre de son déplaisir.

Elle reluqua Jean-Cyril Honoré. Une intense douleur lui parcourut le corps. La Reine enquilla le pinard en deux gorgées. Ahahah… elle fut habile à la tâche, la drôlesse! Une seule nuit, rendez-vous compte avait suffi à transformer la belette!?! Sa raison, comment dire… avait quelque peu sombré… Il se pensait persécuté… - Oh misère… Mais quelle horreur… - Vous ne croyez pas si bien dire. Villain… Le plus simple serait que vous passiez au commissariat dans la semaine.

Vous pourrez disposer du manuscrit, nous en avons déjà fait une copie. Je dois finaliser mon rapport… Mais celui-ci ne devrait plus être très long désormais… Le suicide est entendu… - Entendu?

Mais vous ne savez pas le plus étrange? As hard as nails, as sly as a fox… but a renowned artist, a certain Jean-Honoré Dragonard, Jean-Hono for friends: the king of the hand drill, the prince of the hatchet. Mozart of the cleaver, who would chop a nag at the sound of a trumpet… a virtuoso of boning in a trench mortar version. In order to decipher the double Dutch, we need to go back to the past for a moment. A year and a half ago I believe I still lived in Togo at the time I got an e-mail of a particular kind… A bike rides north andover ma avatar appeared from the message.

Sort of a mystical blazon with a yellow faun dancing in a violet rhomb. Of course there was a person behind the avatar.

A fellow named Villain. He carried the same first name as me. The above mentioned wanted to make me an offer. We chose an Argenteuil inn, where he used to go to in his early youth. I had time to drain four Duvels before they entered the tavern. He was in the company of a woman of striking beauty. I could lie and say that she caught my attention first… but the truth is that his sombre eyes, his incredibly pale forehead and his poéte maudit hairdo virtually captivated me.

His woman and him must have been amateurs of cuisine. I will confine you the paintings you are to illustrate. With the first three paintings I had no difficulty with dashing off decent texts… But this one, this painting, the last commission bothered me. Oh, nothing to do with the canvass itself. It contained a substantial dose of information a skinned horse, a sulky Madonna and a tot in an armour … My problem was connected with a feeling known to many writers… The block… The good old gigantic block!

I do not mean penile block but the lack of inspiration. Oh, the evil fate, in the merciless country not only men were dropping dead… The equine species was also paying a heavy price.

Not all lost their lives but all were concerned. Oh, such a degradation to the most noble animal ever tamed by man! Unrecognizable the great nation, once a big lover of horses, considering a simple gelding and a Pure Blood Arab horse equal to gods — sacred creatures! Farms, wheat and barely fields, green meadows of bison grass, lush valleys, old virgin forests… All laid waste.

Only the smell of powder and blood stayed. The soil was grey as saltpetre, unable to yield any harvest. Scattered corpses, carcasses, skeletons… A union against nature, with people, trees and mammals mixed together. Decomposing bodies, mass graves emitting miasma, a mournful rattle and a clash of weapon in the flesh… a pure testimony to ordinary hatred. Over corpses, like sinister battle flags, reigned vultures, ravens and rats… Pest, devastation and vermin were the only allies; Polandia was slowly sinking into tragedy… Time was passing, I was the only contributor left… the one on whom depended the fate of the book.

He wants a war, right, he will have one. Jean-Hono made the most of the conflict. War provokes privation. But it also generates meat and breaks taboos… Since the beginning of the bloodshed, horsemeat, otherwise despised and prohibited by the queen herself, reached the record price of zlotoos per kilogram.

Beautiful business. A few months before Polandia was seized by the war, the kingdom had been still ruled by a happy royal family. A situation that aroused desires. And yet, wine she would certainly like to drink. At her side lived a young lady, only 15 years her junior, her daughter Princess Polyandra, a personality somewhat dull, finding it difficult to find her place between an illustrious mother and a genius brother, Prince Bambinovsky.

In fact, it was just a little imp. A little cherub of barely five years old, a small lively moppet requiring all the attention, who passed his days riding an electric pony… Yet, all the eyes were turned towards him. In the meantime, his mother was giving him all the care that any mother can give to her son. The baby, who often fell asleep in her bosom, was her everyday source of wonder.

Despite his age, he was an accomplished artist, a remarkable strategist, exceeding in technical drawing as well as in the construction of mechanical toys.

One day he will be a king. One day he will become the commander-in-chief of the Polandian armed forces. One day he will lead a war… The day, oh fatality, came sooner than Polandians might have expected… From time immemorial, Polandia had been a peace-loving kingdom… It happened without doubt due to particular manoeuvres of Jean-Cyril Dragonard… The war must have broken out because of a ploy.

Jean-Cyril conceived a good one… He assured for the services of a fearful alchemist, the witch Mischlou. The plotter charged her with quite a particular task: to prepare a magic potion. She got down to the job. It was a grey winter day. Twilight was falling on dreary Polandian plains. The Queen was resting in her chamber. The boor ordered her servants to lead him immediately to the royal apartments. Only apparently ordinary… For inside there was the best wine of Bourgogne.

Twentyfour bottles of Romanéé Saint-Vivant After a moment of surprise, the Queen expressed her regime sportif jour 1 actu. It is vexatious and dreary at the same time. Certainly, she occasionally writes to me… But only about insignificant details… Grave or circumflex accents in wrong places in my text it seems that she has proclaimed herself my official corrector … all this is hard to take… just like my herbal tea… I hate it…. Hickory dickory dock, two mice ran up the clock!

She glanced at Jean-Cyril Honoré. With his mysterious aura, he always seemed an incredible lady killer to her… Oh, not that it upset her… She drank the beverage. An intense pain ran across her body. But after an instant Jean-Cyril approached to her full lips another goblet with golden brown reflexes.

Beforehand he filled it with Romanéé Saint-Glinglin. The Queen drained the booze in two gulps. Immediately after she felt the force of a harlot… The scheme proved so successful that a few hours later the tart shamelessly gave herself to the infamous weasel, Jean-Cyril. Oh oh oh… and the wench proved skilled at the task too!

A single night was enough to turn her into a cocotte!?! The toilet was out of use… We think that the poor soul was a victim of a bedbug invasion. Besides, you must excuse me, for the sake of the investigation I was obliged to read it… The paintings, however, will stay sealed a few more days.

Officer, please pardon my curiosity… But what makes you so sure? Ziemia szara jak saletra, niezdolna do wydania plonu. Pewnego dnia zostanie zwierzchnikiem armii polandzkiej. Ostatnia notka autora stan nieznany do pana V. Hop hop siup siup! A wie pan, co w tym najdziwniejsze? Petit poisson, tu voles au-dessus de mes espoirs, toutes branchies ouvertes. Plus de gargo à prendre, voyage annulé, destination hélicoïdale et retour instantané. Statique comme la couleur synthétique, figée sur la voile qui ne bat plus, tu me regardes sans vraiment porter attention à cette intrusion.

The fishbone planted in the middle of my throat decided to block the flow of my prayers. No more freighter to take, the voyage is cancelled, the destination helical, the return immediate. Static as a synthetic colour, fixed on the sail, which flutters no more, you look and pay no mind to such an intrusion. I would just like to have faith, to roll myself under your gilt rocaille, to fuse under your sacred shell. Rybko, szybujesz mi nad nadziejami, twoje skrzela otwarte szeroko. Bendita seas, mujer de fango, de humores cristalinos.

Así, hace varios años, los científicos encargados de observar diminutas partículas a través de las lentes de sus microscopios electrónicos certificaron que el setenta por ciento del polvo de los hogares no era otra cosa que células muertas de piel humana.

Retiraremos las células de polvo de la calle, las células de polvo de los objetos, las células de polvo de todo lo que no nos concierne y dejaremos sólo las células de polvo, bien limpias, de nuestra piel. Ah, por favor, habla ahora, habla. Bendita seas entre todas las mujeres.

Bendita seas, reina epitelial. Ahora sé que te agrada la idea que te propongo. Espera la llegada de un paquete, espera la llegada del cartero portando un paquete, espera la llegada del cartero que introduce un papel de recogida en su buzón tras llamar varias veces al timbre y no recibir respuesta desde el interior de la casa.

Mientras, el hombre se encuentra sentado en el suelo, tras la puerta, procurando no hacer ruido. Frente al espejo del recibidor, el hombre se lleva el dedo índice a la boca y reproduce el gesto de las enfermeras impresas en las paredes de los hospitales.

Blessed art thou amongst women. Blessed art thou, woman of mud, of crystalline moods. Like that, some years ago, the scientists who where in charge of the observation of the tiny particles behind the lenses of their electronic microscopes certified that seventy per cent of the dust in homes was nothing but dead cells of human skin. It would be extremely wonderful if we gave each other, next time we meet, after hugs and amusing comments on our new appearances, big bursting plastic bags full of domestic dust that we would have selected in advance.

We will remove the dust cells of the streets, the dust cells of objects, the dust cells of every thing that concerns us, and we will leave just the cells of the dust, neat and shinny, of our skin. We will need pounds, more or less. One of us, the one who drives, will bring several programme de regime pour homme 2014 of mucilage.

We will put the pounds of domestic dust together with the vital liquid and the miracle of the interpersonal homunculus will, in front of everybody, become flesh. Where do you come from?

How do you feel? What are you thinking? Can you feel my fingers caressing you? Oh, please, speak now, speak. What particles are you most fond of? Blessed art thou, epithelial woman. We will dress you in wide tissues of human skin, put in sevens.

Now I know you like my proposition.

We will form a beautiful homunculus of skin, the beautiful covered queen. In the antipodes of the coordinates lying just under our feet, on our feet did you feel like me a heavy weight on your head when you crossed Greenwich Meridian while driving a man awaits the coming of a parcel.

He finds himself sitting on the floor, behind the door, trying not to make any noise. Opposite the mirror in the hall, the man holds his finger close to his mouth and reproduces the gesture of nurses printed on the walls of hospitals. In the opposite coordinates, just on our feet, we will form the most beautiful being that has ever walked on earth. We will cover it with precious cloths in vivid colours, embroidered in golden threads, she will be queenly crowned and we will sing all in identical tone: Gaude et laetare Virgo María, alleluia.

Co czujesz? Vous êtes bénie entre toutes les femmes. Vous êtes bénie, femme de la boue, femme des humeurs limpides. On en aura besoin livres, plus ou moins. Comment allez-vous? À quoi pensez-vous? Es-ce que vous sentez mes doigts quand je vous caresse? Parlez, je vous implore, parlez. Quelles particules aimez-vous le plus? Vous êtes bénie, femme épithéliale.

Nous allons vous habiller en vastes tissus de la peau humaine, par sept. Maintenant je sais que ma proposition vous plaît. Nous allons créer un bel homoncule de peau, la belle reine couverte. Il se trouve assis par terre, derrière la porte, et essaye de ne pas faire un seul bruit. Elle sera si belle que ses pieds ne toucheront pas la terre. Je pourris noir dans une couronne sans fond. I rot black in a bottomless crown.

I sleep and dream With a twitch of large pupils moved aside from the sheets by night abundance. No saint lingers at my bedhead. I, Bernard Subrau, Arrive to Lourdes by the motorway To see light at the bottom of the cave But you prefer it in the darkness Urbi et orbi et urbi et orbi… If the cherubs knew what their parents do at night It would be impossible to keep them at their catechism.

They say that it was because of her sins that her nakedness was covered in delicate fur, like the hair of the hermit apostles who wandered through the desert of Sainte Baume. Her abundant hair both attracted and repelled observers, as they could not accept or ignore a woman with such uterine fervor.

Therefore, she hid for forty years, beyond the rocks, beyond the birds, and combed her hair. Ainsi, elle se cachait pendant quarante ans, au-delà des roches, au-delà des oiseaux, en se peignant les cheveux. The Gate You keep high your self-confidence and yet you strive to quench it. The trap closes at itself, the footsteps in the soft snow break away, ascending to heaven. Years passed without volition, bloated with scattered loves, overpowered by one, now fading away. Beyond your flesh of pale fibres, vapours of brown swamps push over their trophies into the depth of an abyss; only idle illusions float, and filthy barricades.

Les sucs peuvent bien caraméliser nos vaisseaux, bouillir nos cellules, nos influx nerveux griller. Fais-tu vraiment trembler la terre? The juices can caramelise our blood-vessels, boil our cells, grill our neurons.

You have so much indulgence for the negative, oh aquatint. Blindness rises in front of the beauty of thunders, wounds on the curtains of the sky. The shepherdess of carbonised sheep has nothing more to find in the purity of dogmas, and so much to discover under your dark wings, to cherish so many dreamt nights. Your granting to the aesthetics of illnesses, the personification of viruses apply a lotion of sulphur on the misery.

Do you really make the earth tremble? Abrasive brazier, you burn with too real a flame, vivacious. Silhouette distendue vermeille ; le florilège des ingrats qui ne cherchent pas à deviner ton élégance est happé par la voie lactée, phosphorescente. Amoral norm, you nullify all frontiers, all dams, The universe is dripping, algae is carpeting my throat and scarlet tonsils.

The wordless erudite, your illnesses talk to me, the doubt sits on the surface of certitude. The apology of the void of inexistence, a spirit building up next to the body, the much vaunted other side. Kostium jest dziwaczny. Ostentacyjnie ludyczny, naiwnie wschodnioeuropejski. Uwiera w okolicy szyi.

Rideaux blanc sablé

The costume is odd. Ostentatiously folkloric, naively Eastern European. It constrains movements. Je sent mon ventre gonflé, ma cicatrice tirer. Oui le meilleur reste à venir. Je le sais. Oui on subit. Plastyka brzucha, piersi, powiek W skrócie wszyscy pacjenci którym operacja konieczna jest do poprawy zdrowia, a nie urody.

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Les procédures selon injectorinsiderce qu'il faudrait faire pour un résultat similaire.