101.8

 

101.8

Once the poet became tiny again, she stopped worrying and let herself sink into the teacup with an almost inaudible splash. The tea was a lagoon of words now. Schools of monosyllables swam around her, scattering as fast as they’d swarmed, while eel-like long words moved languorously – grand dames dancing to the surface only to dive again.

One group always remained at the bottom, though. 

Their leader was Sorrow.

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