August 2012
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from The Fountainhead
Howard Roark laughed. He stood naked at the edge of a cliff. The lake lay far below him. A frozen explosion of granite burst in flight to the sky over motionless water. The water seemed immovable, the stone flowing. The stone had the stillness of one brief moment in battle when thrust meets thrust and the currents are held in a pause more dynamic than motion. The stone glowed, wet with...
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July 2012
21 posts
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“And bats with baby faces in the violet light
Whistled, and beat their wings ...”
– T.S Eliot
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