do not know which she treasured more: the luminous beads themselves, or the envy of her sisters when she wore them.

Some stories he told me by daylight. Others came only when the fire was burnt out, and there was no one to know his face but the shadows.

She was a goddess of torment and understood the eloquence of violence.

The only thing that calmed him was the sea. The wind that was as restless as he was, the waves filled with their motion.

But I pressed his face into my mind, as seals are pressed in wax, so I could carry it with me.

wayward

conceit

Now that Medea had named my loneliness, it hung from everything, clinging like spiderwebs, unavoidable.

But in a solitary life, there are rare moments when another soul dips near yours, as stars once a year brush the earth. Such a constellation was he to me.