The Wistful Saga
The rain does not fall so much as it is exuded by the sky, a heavy, industrial sweat that slicks the cobblestones of the court into a mirror of soot and reflection, and you stand at the center of this wet arena, your hands clenched not in fists but in the loose, trembling posture of a man holding a breath that has been held for too long, your breath a white ghost against the iron-grey air, your...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima