Her hands were typing furiously, relentless, pausing only briefly to bend to the wills of the aged machine. Long, strange, scattered beats of thumping upon the skinned tree. How crude, she thought, when measuring the worth of a tree like this one- is this so important? There was further burning from her fingertips, anxious at the edge of the page. Still slowly her fingers began to feel the soft message that came forth; she was after all delivering good news.

apr�s - vers l'avant

bout cinq...
short cliche poem on nostalgia - 2017-08-05
- - 2015-11-26
- - 2015-10-12
- - 2015-10-10
Good news. - 2015-05-04