Potato Hot ,French expression lost in translation. See explanation below yo, like a French fries stall. Hot as embers, the blessed beggar. The artiss. The Gugusse, the Tatave, the BroqueFrench nicknames and so on. I loved him as no one has ever loved me. He flew away like no one has ever left me. I would have liked a bit more left.
He slipped through my legs like a hanged man without a tie. He walked away without a barricade the moment you arrived. Did you have to turn him on? It was already potato hot. Excited in the city, in heat on the hill, and you, you accompany him in the countryside? Patate stops in his tracks and calls, shaking his balls, “Xavier! See you on the Big Dipper. The bright star! Have some wine, I’ll bring cheese.”
What wine? Does he want to break the bread and say : Eat it brethren, this is my body? What star? Will he call for the Three Kings to whom I wish to pay homage by exempting my ramage with the beard of their plumage. Of course, they never existed, but who else can brag about it – apart from the vanquished without tempting, the always tormented virtual ones, acclaimed sheepish heroes, robot rejects, failed rebuses with which we will have to be content.
“To be potato hot is to be motivated like never before, ready to take up any challenge: climb the Annapurna (अन्नपूर्णा) in flip-flops, jump from the three-meter diving board to impress the girls, speak to the pretty blonde with huge eyes. Who is potato hot will respond with panache to the challenge given by a mediocre. To be potato hot is to be the stuff of superheroes, nothing less.“ (my comment)It’s obvious
Vieux Patate did me the horror to send a post from his hand. I received it on my mailbox, safer than smallpox. I couldn’t get over it. But he did, one would say without worrying about the candid raccoon.Lost in translation (music) Potato chopped the hidden evil. The ghost is my host. He never left.
Prayer princess hears the river from my melted eyes. Learn the art and the manner of drawing beer on the thick and plump haughty foam the day before yesterday. If your heart of stone is covered with ivy shaded with light, shade is customary on the walls of thatched cottages. Miner the farmer close the mine miss the dobby grate the rapier push the dust suck the headrest to score the hot coast is the boiler but Patate won the palm. Stay calm. No deal no dope. Nope. Shut up and roll. Peace to your soul.
If you want the moon, grab it soon. If you want to fly, join Xavier’s workshop. If you meet terror, look for the error. Fear does not give wings, it tears them off. It paralyzes. It makes stupid, fragile and hyper vulnerable. It is the Warrior’s First Enemy, he has four main ones and could bore many more.
We were the same age and we were friends. We ate our bread with such a good appetite that the women laughed when we passed them. (source) To learn to fly we didn’t need wings, we just needed to love. Love is a crime when you have the misfortune of being in the same bed. It becomes a reward in other circumstances. Now that I think about it, we lived the intense one. We guessed in advance that nothing matters except the fair in a trance on Christmas Eve in Fort de France. (music) And that was fine for us.
Potato hot, oh how much. Always going, every time coming back. You just have to see. But after that, will he come back? The future will bind us. But will he read us? I don’t know. Come give me your hand. (music)
The solution ? There are not any. The explanation? I haven’t either. The incentive? Not seen not known. The excitement? We would have to have it. Disappearance ? I haven’t read it. Contrition? Talk to my hand. (music)
So you see why I have the unfortunate impression that Almighty Living gave me the hot potato to burn my mouth with. And that Forever Living had no intention of taking him back. I’m talking about the Vieux Patate. The acrobat. Above the people. (music) All the time. No, I didn’t do him justice, doing the best I could do. Talking about those who love us and nevertheless slip sliding away (music) and mourning about those worse kind of lovers the more they leave us the more we love them. Patate acrobat belongs to both. And that bothers me.
He’s gone, I love him and I curse him. I thought he didn’t care, he just told me no. The image he leaves oppresses him. Never mind. I did my max. Confined in my cagna, I was not going to glorify the palace in Patate. Feeling nearly as faded as my jeans. (music) In a better world, where the weather is mild all year round, where I would like to go, I’ve already lived there, God knows when, I don’t know where. When I think about it, all I smell is the south (music) and it smells good.
We all have in our hearts (music) a mourning, an absence, a gap that threatens, in the evenings of weariness (music) to engulf us in the abyss of suffering. We all have an open wound that festers and spoils us the most beautiful moments. Impossible to recover from the loss of a child, a brother, a dear friend, the man or the woman of his life broke in an accident, murdered by a nut.
How to recover from such horrors? Over time, replies the great Leo. With time only. (music)