Christmas Eve

Christmas Eve The birds make fake bird songs that I heard in the Christmas shops, the fake moon is spotted before dark, the navyblue sky is waiting for its absence to be filled, houses stand like sentries, men in windows…

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Whither Literature?

‘Now that the literary novel is marginalized, the theatre too often a time-serving charade, and poetry increasingly like a children’s party game, perhaps it’s time once more for the considered observation, the aphorism, the intimate journal and the reflective diary.’…

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