The Pale Tower
The air in the kitchen tastes of wet copper and old dust. You stand by the sink, the water running cold over your knuckles, listening to the rhythm of the pipes which sound less like plumbing and more like the hollow thumping of a heart failing in the chest of the house. You are a man who has kept his head down for twenty years, a clerk in a municipal building where the fluorescent lights hum a...
0 Commentarios 0 Acciones 2 Views 0 Vista previa