Says, Shuts himself up like a corpse one day, eats like an
He can
Gibbous.
Your problem, Werner, is that you still believe you own your life.
You know how diamonds—how all crystals—grow, Laurette? By adding microscopic layers, a few thousand atoms every month, each atop the next. Millennia after millennia. That’s how stories accumulate too.
Why doesn't the wind move the light?
Why do we have to sleep in this little bedroom? I’m sure we could clean out a downstairs room if you’d like. What about the room across the
Well, Fredde has all the best there at that school, all the
Wednesdays. You will strip away
We all come into existence as a single cell, smaller than a speck of dust. Much smaller. Divide. Multiply. Add and subtract.
Violins, horns, drums, speeches—a mouth against a microphone in some faraway yet simultaneous evening—the sorcery of it holds him rapt.
Then the short man disappears through the huge doors. Minutes later, the aide-de-camp flings open the shutters of an upstairs window and gazes a moment across the rooftops before unfurling a crimson f...
The weather in this place: you can feel it between your fingers.
The Reich must need socks.
The Americans fished on, not hoping for much anymore, perhaps for a miracle, searching for small things to be happy about, because they were Americans and this was what their upbringings had taught th...
That little rock you’re so curious about may have seen Alaric sack Rome; it may have glittered in the eyes of Pharaohs. Scythian queens might have danced all night wearing it. Wars might have been fou...
That great shuttles of souls might fly about, faded but audible if you listen closely enough? They flow above the chimneys, ride the sidewalks, slip through your jacket and shirt and breastbone and lu...
That afternoon, long after the stool has been put away and the waltzes have stopped, while Werner sits with his transceiver listening to nothing, a little redheaded girl in a maroon cape emerges from...
She wants very badly for her father to say, Yes, that’s it absolutely, ma chérie, but he says nothing.
Seventy-six years old, and I can still feel like this? Like a little girl with stars in my eyes?