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  • Sure, it wasn’t the Love Summer … it was only the last summer of the millennium… holidays before going to college… Kamile and her impudent and contagious love of life… As in a tactile memory he remembered how his hands the next morning had glided over her amber skin... His eyes still closed, he smiles. In that voluntary darkness he relishes once more the energy that had ravished him, to the point of making a gypsy out of him, invaded by the smell of spices, by the color of textiles and by the perfume of the hookah.
    The gray of his grunge rock had been annihilated. A personal revolution where his disenchantment with life had vanished and he had actually started to make projects. His fragility had little by little turned into strength.
    Kamile, so unpredictable and unconventional, with her return to the “primitive”, had opened his doors to perception, like a drug.
    “Let’s go!”, “Come on!”, “Hurry up!” were the only English phrases Kamile knew. For everything else, surprise reigned!
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