No Poem Is the Only Poem. No Story Is the Only Story. Since 2015.
“Right, yes. It’s assumed the Tollund Man was a human sacrifice, rather than an executed criminal or disliked member of Scandinavia. The way he was found—holding himself, eyes and mouth closed—imply a sanctity to his death. Now, what’s interesting is that his body was so perfectly preserved that even his last meal was left intact. A porridge, made of barley, flax, and seeds, along with some fish and—”
Moving restively through a corridor of dust. A beep of a car alarm being armed reminds me of a fire consuming a town.
Tom had once done his best to convince Seymour to read digital books, even buying him a Kindle for his birthday. Seymour refused to even start up the small device. For him, a book was only a book if he could feel its solid cover in his hands, could flip through its pages with his fingers. Hardcover and paperback were both just fine. E-books? Not for him.
A couple, walking in the park holding hands could just make out the top two floors of the twelve story pre-war apartment building clad in pale yellow. If they stopped and looked-up they might spot his apartment on the southwest corner. The casement window should have been open since it was the first warmish day after a long winter, but it wasn’t. The one-bedroom, one bath unit’s saving grace was a good sized living room and a U-shaped kitchen with a spacious eating nook and a glimpse of the park.