The Wistful Atlas
I, II, III The queue for the Nyeri ferry stretched into the mist, a long, shivering line of men hauling sacks of coffee that weighed more than their pride. We waited for the rain to stop, though it had not stopped in three weeks, and the air tasted of wet iron and rotting vegetation. I stood near the back, my hands wrapped around a box of type, missing letters, the metal cold against my palms....
0 Comments 0 Shares 1 Views 0 Reviews