They had finished slaughtering the oxen. The hunters stood near the bodies on a stretch of level ground.
Last winter, I wrote a short story called ‘The Charles.' It was about a couple—a man and a woman. One summer day...
Once I had a book of thoughts / But somewhere between my 18th year / And the present
There are sounds we carry / Like hidden larks in our chest: / Larks that fly over underground streams.
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