The Faded Chronicle
The rain is not falling, it is hammering, a rhythmic, violent drumming against the tin roof of the shed that sounds less like weather and more like the collective grief of the sky trying to break open the earth to look for something lost, while you stand there, your hands wrapped around the cold iron handle of the gate, your knuckles white, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps that taste of...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 1 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen