[His voice bears his age, the darker hues of it like rust, frictioned and grinding with grief. Slow. Plodding.]
Julian Bell died eight years ago, in a fire. [It hurts to say that name. It hurts, as newly wounding as the first day he'd heard the news nearly a decade before.] Back in the arms of the angels. More suitable wings.
[It might have been a lighthearted remark, once. When he could still hold the poet in his arms.]
[ voice ]
Julian Bell died eight years ago, in a fire. [It hurts to say that name. It hurts, as newly wounding as the first day he'd heard the news nearly a decade before.] Back in the arms of the angels. More suitable wings.
[It might have been a lighthearted remark, once. When he could still hold the poet in his arms.]