Narrator:
A morning arrives in November, a leafless, birdless coming of winter morning, when she cannot rouse herself to exclaim:...'Oh my, it's fruitcake weather!'...and when that happens, I know it. A message saying so merely confirms a piece of news some secret vein had already received, severing from me an irreplaceable part of myself, letting it loose like a kite on a broken string. That is why, on this particular December morning, I keep searching the sky. As if I expected to see, rather like hearts, a lost pair of kites hurrying toward heaven.
Riportata da il
05/03/2025 alle ore 08:32
Consiglia
Voto
Nessun dato in archivio
Commenti
Nessun dato in archivio
