What she saw as elegance was, to my eyes, nothing short of macabre. I needed a job, and this limp-haired, twitchy woman had one.
The war is over or is it? Do I know you as a dirty innocent thing yet? A discarded soft child forgotten by your god? A picture frame made of wilted flowers?
We’ve become boxers who bite opponents. We’ve become women who fail to report rape. We’ve become men who piss themselves. This is our common tale of woe.
Ebba looked into the white ground, gleaming back at her like a dish of salt, the only reflection she saw being her sorrow.
I’ve always believed in some sort of ‘meant to be’, and by that, I mean that there is more to our encounters than meets the eye.