What could be, in the wrong hands, an incredibly mundane story about someone eating a meal alone feels like poetry and, somehow, the way I imagine France to feel, though I’ve never been there. A beautiful meditation on love, loss, transition, etc. And you said it had no theme!
What could be, in the wrong hands, an incredibly mundane story about someone eating a meal alone feels like poetry and, somehow, the way I imagine France to feel, though I’ve never been there. A beautiful meditation on love, loss, transition, etc. And you said it had no theme!