Eight in the morning. The coffee is barely lukewarm in the palm of your hand. He rolls out of the corner. A small, white, humming god, …

I stood on the overpass, leaning over the rusted railings, and below me the black artery pulsated with melted cars...

There is a certain weariness growing in the shoulders and neck, not from work or sleeplessness...

Inside her, the household turned into geometry. Every worry, every urgent matter is not a thought or...

That sound, rhythmic and insistent like an inquisitor's interrogation, has long since become my inner metronome, beating no ...