Have not seen her since that night. Unwell? Sits at the fire perhaps with mamma’s shawl on her shoulders. But not peevish. A nice bowl of gruel? Won’t you now?
James Joyce, A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Thought:
“Luciana and I spread boundless, oceans of braided wildwood. I said our adventure and she yes, brought things that said she wanted to agree. A patterned dress, a pound of sliced meat, a thin bra that turned her the pearlescence of a shell. We slipped into the hive some lustrous word, carving wooden houses, translating each other into texture and light.”
Alyssa Morhardt-Goldstein | Nympholepsy
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