Catching the stories of the moment, pinning them to the page like butterflies under glass. Maybe not so pretty as butterflies. Pinned, all the same.
There were days upon days of stories. Spilling like salt, like sand, like music from a long-ago country, submerged beneath the ice, beneath the words we held until they froze in our hands, thawed in our mouths.
Neither of us knew what we were in for.