The Faded Quadrant
The dream is not of fire, as you might expect for a woman whose life has been incinerated by the machinery of the state, but of water, cold and deep and utterly silent, pressing against the membrane of your eyelids until the darkness becomes a solid thing you can press your cheek against, and in that submersion you are not Margaret Holloway, the woman who signed the papers, the woman who smiled...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima