The Wistful Mountain
The wind does not ask for permission before it strips the flesh from your bones, and you stand there, in the howling white silence of the high pass, holding your daughter’s hand so tightly that your knuckles have turned the color of old ash, feeling the vibration of the storm travel up through the soles of your boots and into the marrow of your spine. You are a scholar of languages that no...
0 Комментарии 0 Поделились 1 Просмотры 0 предпросмотр