Title : Optionnel

Text : They keep triggering inside me. They harass my memory. I see them tall in their heaps, all mounted on top of each other. There is air like plastic, a horizon like setting glue. There are skies manufactured by people, punctured and leaking, and there are soft, coal-colored clouds, beating like black hearts. And then. There is death. Making his way through all of it. Chaque paragraphe sera un test.

Save test : Utilisez cette option si vous souhaitez partager ce test de dactylographie (uniquement pour les utilisateurs authentifiés).