Original in French:
Miu Prada awoke on a white lilac bed that smelled like the day. She pulled at her sunlight that came caressing her cheek. It was chocolate bread crumb quarter, she dipped her cozy mood into the hot coffee. Floral notes played on a partition bottle, Miu felt on edge, her difference was revealed by the words from her lips. Sweet candy sticking to her fingertips, she laughed ahead of future shouting. The iridescence of her aura shined on her darkest insides, taffeta taught her delicacy, once more. A pink velvet cloud was finishing its run after the rain on a dry varnish. Miu took a dark and thin pencil, drowning her features, she scribbled waves thinking of iced “Vogue” which sometimes failed on the shows taken by winter. Turquoise sky, red ocean kiss, the colors were changing the world over the years, the range of existence was drowning in water while confronting all trends. Miu was wrapped to Scott Fitzgerald’s cover, she read Gatsby’s secrets from the top of her fingertips. The psyche prowling around a centerpiece, he sought the shade of the Prada. Miu took a sharp metallic lamé dress, she directed him a final reflection as a well established iconoclast. She overcame the washed door with tormented hinges, the beach was open to her shoed feet. She picked up the froth while kissing it, placing the hours, still fresh, in a bi-Days box. She wanted to build the impossible, crossing her hopes with her unspeakable creativity. She invented the non-existent which was waiting on a dock, suspended to time, an old-fashioned sound of liberty echoed. Her LED hair was flashing on her sheer face, Miu was picking up shell beads, she slammed one of them against her ear while hearing Louis Armstrong, he believed that the “Barbie” life would always be pink. Pearly drops mixed with the foam pieces, the jar was agitated with a new inspiration.
Miu wrote on the charming sand, “The world is a source, I want to be drunk! “.