Vjeceslav berar Stories

In the rhythm of the Marangona Somnabulic fantasy That oneiric night, wrapped in a mantle of rain drops that was tapping a gloomy cadence, a oneiric night illuminated by a lunar reflector, and darkened by rainy clouds, Annabel found herself in a smallish campo [1], one of the numerous in that town, not knowing how she got there, lost as every reader, looking for a yarn hank to catch, a lighthouse on the literary offing, h...