When we talk about failure, I know there’s a daughter, a son, a banner of damp hills and each door to a farmhouse well-proportioned.
When we talk about failure, I know there’s a daughter, a son, a banner of damp hills and each door to a farmhouse well-proportioned.
Her family jostled and congealed in fertile suburbs−a place on a map embroidered with mirrors. Plenty of gazes on the soles of their feet.
