Gray clouds marched across the sky, but everything so close, and then the mist came swirling up and drifted dank and heavy through the bushes, so leaden, so sluggish. He carried on, indifferent, the way meant nothing to him, now, up, now down. He felt no tiredness, just occasionally regret that he couldn‘t walk on his head.
Michael_Gee Etching by Walter Gramatté based on this work. At SLAM listening to an opera by Berg based on another tale by this author (edited) 2y
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