Издания и произведения

I am alone in my room. Alone. This trip, I have wanted it so badly and for so long that I have often doubted it would ever come to pass. But this evening, my desire finally realized, I find that I am here with myself. No bridge connects me to the others. Of those I loved most and best, all I have to remember them by is a flower, a photograph. The flower, a rose, is almost done wilting in the toothbrush glass. Yesterday, at the same time, it was resplendent on my coat, the buttonhole high enough for it to surprise my face at the slightest tilt of my head. But with every movement, my late afternoon skin, before astonishing itself with the…