The Distant Garden
The rain does not fall so much as it hangs in the air, a suspended gray mist that erodes the edges of the world and turns the highway into a slick, black ribbon stretching endlessly toward a horizon that refuses to resolve itself into land or sky, and you are driving this car, this rusted blue sedan that smells of wet wool and old gasoline and the faint, sweet rot of the orchids in the...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen