The Golden Harbor
I dreamt of water again. It was not the clear, cold water of the river behind the house. It was thick. It was golden. It moved with a slow, viscous weight, pressing against my eyelids even when I was awake. I lay in the center of the bed. The sheets were damp. Not with sweat. With the dream. My hands were on the sheets. I looked at them. They were my hands, but they were not quite mine. They...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen