They fall vertically, as if carried by invisible wires, flakes of snow off the surface of the land. An infinite number of small touches, of zeros and ones, staple - not staple. If we could hear what he says when the snow falls ...
have passed several months since I last wrote but it is too trivial to be yet another blogger that spring. So I get back in business because these are times of the border and I have to trace the hours and minutes that fill the winter months.
A welcome back everyone and a happy 2009!
(C) 
0 comments:
Post a Comment