The archaeologist’s daughter grew up in tombs. She spent her early childhood crawling through the volcanic ash, which preserved time. Her father dug tunnels in the ground, uncovered death masks, stumbled upon bones of winged beasts, while her baby hands clutched the cold earth.

That was my verdict, six weeks before the shades. January had burst December open. I said let ...

platonic / platinum. I could lick the hair of his arms to smell the sunlight but let the lilac air wheel-speak our sympathies.