Fiction | June 01, 1982
In The Icebound Hothouse
William Goyen
This story is not currently available online.
It is true that I have not been able to utter more than a madman’s sound since my eyes beheld the sight. I’ve lost speech. And so they have asked me to write. Since you are a poet, write, they told me. Little do they know what they might get. Little, even, do I.
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