The Wistful Saga
The morning light in the Hall of Records does not shine so much as it presses against the glass, a heavy, amber weight that settles on your shoulders before you have even reached your desk, a physical manifestation of the dust that hangs in the still air, suspended like the motes of a life you are trying to catalogue but can never quite contain. You sit in the chair that was built for a man...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima