The Distant Promise
The ink is still wet on the parchment of your life, bleeding into the grain of the desk like a bruise that will never quite heal, and you sit there in the suffocating silence of the faculty office, surrounded by the dust motes dancing in the shafts of pale, winter afternoon light, watching the letters you have spent three decades perfecting dissolve into a meaningless, slurry of black and gray,...
0 Comentários 0 Compartilhamentos 1 Visualizações 0 Anterior