Louis Klee

Rivers I could hear their voices long before I knew what they meant (Wrong.)boiling glue in corridors, goose feathers disinterred from snowsomehow still as white as butter. Apart from this, everythingopened like the prospect of a good mood, fish eggs easyin the dark inundation. The wide berth is given. But is it? No, No, No,… Continue reading Louis Klee