He wished it were May. He’d always enjoyed writing about May, with its confidence of daylight, the inviting lassitude of the sea… . But it was not May. It was twelve days before Christmas, and the daylight looked no more certain of what it was doing than he was.
Tag: joy williams
He wished it were May. He’d always enjoyed writing about May, with its confidence of daylight, the inviting lassitude of the sea… . But it was not May. It was twelve days before Christmas, and the daylight looked no more certain of what it was doing than he was.