Fifty-seven degrees. A steady rain. Imagine reading such details in an arid, treeless future and thinking they could not possibly be true. We went to the falls. Upon entering the forest, we — Falls? What falls? Forest? Impossible. A hoax — a hoax! a hoax! a hoax! a hoax!
Stone, papyrus, books, electronic files — and these, our very own bones.
September 27, 2021
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Categories: New Poems & Pieces
Tags: Bones, Details, Diaries, Journals, Paradise Lost, Rain, Trees, Waterfalls, Words
William Michaelian 