Mild dove-colored oily waves washed upon the gray shore for the last time that evening bringing peace to those who needed it and unbearable silence for insomniacs. The air felt stiff and if one reached out their hand piercing its density, tips of the fingers would be barely visible. Rippled crescent started summoning the low tide like a blind psychic calls out for spirits of the dead. Indeed, the ambiance left much to be desired.
by the waters
© Copyright: Запах Сарсапарели, 2017
Свидетельство о публикации №117050406905
Свидетельство о публикации №117050406905
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