My mother, may God bless her, told me, “My son, there is nothing but that you are still growing your feathers, you are still growing.” So I also told her:
“I died eleven years ago on a miserable winter night, and you came to shake the dust off my coffin.”
I told her that there was no brief and convincing reason for it not to rain that night. Oh... it was raining heavily. No one realized how it had rained. The cheering and screams began to rise to the sky and fall among the skies of other places. They were like messages spreading their wings and landing on the balconies to listening ears like carrier pigeons, in the past. Where things are primitive, these hybrid messages...