Who Thinks of Me?
Loneliness comes in winter, always has.
Enveloped in the blackness of my leather chair I languish.
The warm wool carpet, red as blood, gathers in my toes like
native women folding harvest in their aprons.
Soft-lit lamps with linen shades in golden hues
perch on polished wooden tables.
This space, embracing like a mother's womb, offers up no secrets.
In …
This 100-word excerpt has been provided in the absence of an abstract.
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