The Swordholder
The first time I met Richard Voss, he was drunk. Not theatrically drunk, not the kind of drunk where a man falls to his knees and wails about his lost love. He was sitting in a booth at the back of a bar on Seventh Avenue, nursing a single-malt Scotch the way other men nurse a wound, looking at the bottom of his glass as if the answers to the universe were hiding in the amber liquid. He was...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 4 Visualizações 0 Anterior