The Distant Wound
The rain in Casterbridge does not wash things clean; it merely makes the soot stick to the skin. You stand in the doorway of the Ministry of Memory, the cold iron of the gate biting into your palm, watching the last of your colleagues file into the main hall. They are going to the evening shift, their coats heavy with the industrial fog that rolls off the river, but you are staying behind. You...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen