Title : Optionnel

Text : My fingers "run the bowel" looking for holes that a blade or bullet might have created, coil after glistening coil, twenty-three feet of it compacted into such a small space. The gut that has slithered past my fingers like this in the African night would by now reach the Cape of Good Hope, and I have yet to see the ordinary miracles under skin and rib and muscle, visions concealed from their owner. Is there a greater privilege on earth? Chaque paragraphe sera un test.

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