The Distant Journey
The bread is dry. You break it with your fingers. The crust snaps. A small cloud of dust rises. It tastes of earth. And ash. You are in the cellar. The air is thick. It smells of mold. And old sweat. You are alone. Or you think you are. The dark presses in. It has no edges. It is solid. It is heavy. You hold the loaf in your hand. It is warm. From the oven above. You did not bake it. Someone...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen