The Wistful Voyage
The rain against the glass of the carriage window sounds like a slow, deliberate knocking. You are sitting in the corner, your knees drawn up, watching the water distort the passing landscape into a smear of gray and green. You are an old man now, though you do not feel it in your bones. You feel it only in the way your mind loops, over and over, on the same small, sharp details. The scent of...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen