The objects I chose were designed to hold something, but I didn't fill them up. They remained empty. They were little symbolic shrines to thirst.
Margaret AtwoodDon't let the bastards grind you down. I repeat this to myself but it conveys nothing. You might as well say, Don't let there be air; or Don't be. I suppose you could say that.
Margaret AtwoodA hot wind was blowing around my head, the strands of my hair lifting and swirling in it, like ink spilled in water.
Margaret Atwood