The Distant Metropolis
The stone walls of the Abbey of Saint Jude do not breathe, yet in the damp chill of November, they seem to contract around you, pressing against the back of your skull. You are thirty years old, and your hands, once steady enough to copy the Psalms without a tremor, now shake with a fatigue that sleep cannot cure. You want only to finish the *Book of Hours* before the winter solstice; it is the...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 2 Views 0 Anteprima