Yet the sense of overwhelm did not quite dissipate till a canvas at the far end enticed her attention towards it.

But because your inner life is not meagre, you hear an echo, and it is not yours.

A generous artist, he thought, sharing with the wide world such a hook; on the wet curve’s slope were anchored teardrops. Those were made of glass.

All the same on our first day I insisted on going to the museum.

She sighs and mellows out, rolls her head towards the right and gazes through the victorian window nook, drapes open.

They liked it docile, he knew. He secretly wished they knew this too.

We were all played out, sleepless in the faux village, and everyone was happy.

Under the Linké tree at Kourougan Fouga, Soundjata sealed the friendship between peoples and therein birthed the Mali Empire.