|
|
Three birds fly high in the air. One is for Amy one beside it for Suzanne, and the other that is with them though a little apart must be for Arty who was not stabbed.
One lonely tear leaks and slides down my cheek chest trembling under my shirt. My head wants to swim in spirals of madness because I don't know what kind of birds they are . . .
All three lie dead, while three birds fly high in the air . . . |
|