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the well

He climbed down in the cold, rung by rung, touching the dry wall and watching the cone of light overhead constrict from a sun, to a pale moon, to a hole in a reed. The tubular tomb had closed over him when at last the ladder swayed slack beneath his feet. His breath was muffled, harsh and dry; his eyes hurt when he lit the lamp.

 


Maurizio Cosua | Senza Titolo