: Russian sun, Siberian snow. Soft on the nose and fingertips. Cars sizzle and slide on the ice. Pixies and Portishead. The White Tiger moans, curls into a ball, purs on a snowman blanket. As if it were a crinkled calendar page. The fifth or the sixth? Breakfast might be too much, the coffee is running low. Some things never change: a trip to the grocery store is shuffled from afternoon to evening. Salmon in the pan. The rice steams like screaming heard from far away.
No comments:
Post a Comment