a young person and my drawing

I am there, visavis my blank sheet of 224 Mg,my size pencil in action. The cut mine,tightened in my fingers, my right hand posesand connects the features. In the course of time, a foreground then a second takes shape. Imouse with each blow given. I release mypencil and I take my gum to delete anexceeding feature. Stupidly, I mouse, becausethe decoration which surrounds me could lendto smiling. Sat on the walk of a Parisianstaircase, I am in my bubble. In any event,people pass without me to see, then I continuein my world.

The features form a drawing, my drawing, mycaricature personal reasons to the forefront ofmy freedom of expression. People pass withoutbeing concerned with my presence.
Suddenly, a young teenager, the cap behind,looks at my work over my head and tells me:
Wesh, Mister! It is too beautiful! You havetalent!
Thank you young man, I answered, smiling,flattered to be left my dreamed by thiscompliment.
Wesh, it is not a drawing of buffoon, says meit while laughing.
I burst of laughing, followed by an unverifiablegiggle. My eyes cry of merry tears. The young person looks me without a word, a smileobstructed with the lips.
Does that go, Mister? Why do you laugh likethat?
You know small, if I showed my drawing withwhoever, they would not understand, and Iwould be a buffoon.
Ben, me I understand, Me sir. It is a mixtureof people who are held the hand in a street. Doyou believe, Me sir that individuality has likefriend solidarity?
My small, I can tell you that the respectapplies already to oneself, to be given to thedifferent one.
It is sure that, Me sir. At a stretch of pencil,that gave the smile to the drawing.
It is nicely known as, but that could takealong anger to certain glances. How are youcalled, my boy?
Charlie, Me sir, answers me it while leaving!

afflicted for my translation and my grammar

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