The Distant Garden
The orchid is dying. You know this. You have always known this, even in the weeks before the petals began to curl into dry, brown scrolls, resembling the twisted fingers of a beggar. It sits on the windowsill of the administrative office, a stark, white spike of life in a room that smells of dust and old paper. The air conditioning hums a low, monotone drone, a sound that has drilled itself...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima