There was no Lo to behold.

My mind speaks English, my heart speaks Russian, and my ear prefers French.

We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives.

The nostalgia I have been cherishing all these years is a hypertrophied sense of lost childhood, not sorrow for lost banknotes.

The pages are still blank, but there is a miraculous feeling of the words being there, written in invisible ink and clamoring to become visible.

Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons.

Stirless, I stand at the window, and in the black bowl of the sky glows like a golden drop of honey the mellow moon