Lácrimas

The plants, they shine at night. A melodrama of wavering moths, sparrows, cicadas, shadows, streams, and towering trees. A dizzying and displacing garden in a lower-key. Joan, don’t despair, tear down that tree. Paul, keep running, just flee. Burt, you ignorant fuck, it’s not your adding machine. Montgomery, stop knocking, and leave.

تُعرض النبذة بالإنجليزية لعدم توفر ترجمة بعد.