Bokelskere.no

The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky--- Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. At the end, they soberly bong out their names.