What do you want me to do? he whispers into the empty air.It’s hard to know.From habit he lifts his watch; it shows him its blank face.Zero hour, Snowman thinks. Time to go.
Margaret Atwood
What do you want me to do? he whispers into the empty air.It’s hard to know.From habit he lifts his watch; it shows him its blank face.Zero hour, Snowman thinks. Time to go.