March. The time comes now for the Spring, for the new collections, for the daydreams which we walk all day long.
March. The time is for the humidity also, for the showers, for the rain of winds. It is one month more at least attractive, one month mass grave, between two extremes of temperature. After all, it is the bipolar month which asks for the patience, for the obstinance in time, but which goes by all the same without eddy as the water on the pavement.
Quiet women, tone of scraggy voice and uncountable sweetnesses will sprinkle the listening of the collection of March.
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