His beliefs are living beings, Holden says, talking about himself again. At first they fall as impoverished angels into his eyes as dawn paints the window reddish. Then they lather his daylight with hard thoughts of who should receive a suggestion of death and who a short sentence of life. They tumble into the crevices of his doubts, clamoring with their sharp edges of how he must rise and admire his administration of justice.
Beauty and melancholy in nearly equal measure. Like the sweet and sometimes sour fruit of those fallen oranges. It feels introspective and personal and - beyond that - tangible. Thank you for the gift of this story - I enjoyed every moment of it.
Victor, I've fallen behind reading your pieces but read today's just now with my breakfast. All I can say is wow. This one hits hard. Every line resonates. I hope you're very pleased with how it turned out. Happy new year to my favorite not-nearly-well-enough-known fiction writer. ~Sandy
Beauty and melancholy in nearly equal measure. Like the sweet and sometimes sour fruit of those fallen oranges. It feels introspective and personal and - beyond that - tangible. Thank you for the gift of this story - I enjoyed every moment of it.
Victor, I've fallen behind reading your pieces but read today's just now with my breakfast. All I can say is wow. This one hits hard. Every line resonates. I hope you're very pleased with how it turned out. Happy new year to my favorite not-nearly-well-enough-known fiction writer. ~Sandy