The Distant Metropolis
The ink is black. It is not just black; it is the absence of light, a void that drinks the morning sun and gives back nothing. You hold the quill, and the hand trembles. It is a small tremor, barely a shiver, but to you it feels like an earthquake splitting the foundation of the world. The shop is quiet. The dust motes dance in the slant of light that cuts through the high, arched windows of...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima