Mute, he asks for death, for tomorrow, with his hands. Same gesture. We, alive, in a summerhouse in a pasture, in ryegrass, in sorghum. His voice, a lonely man's passage through vetiver. His hands signal warning. Signal love. Signal I am … Read on blog or Reader Eunoia Review Read on blog or Reader Pond-Quiet perfectsublimemasters April 1 Mute, he asks for death, for tomorrow, with his hands. Same gesture. We, alive, in a summerhouse in a pasture, in ryegrass, in sorghum. His voice, a lonely man's passage through vetiver. His hands signal warning. Signal love. Signal I am going this way. Will be back. No one knows the extinction of voice. We […] Read more of this post Comment Like You can also reply to this email to leave a comment.

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