Nson Editor |verified| Review

He thought about the question. He thought about the messy stacks on his desk, the young authors he had coaxed into brilliance, the ones who had cried and thanked him and the ones who had never spoken to him again.

At the base of the tower, a figure sat on a concrete block. It was a woman, or seemed to be. Her hair was the colour of untuned television snow. Her eyes were the same grey as the negative space between stars. She was not old, not young. She looked like a photograph that had been left in the rain. nson editor

There was a long pause. Three dots appeared, vanished, appeared again. He thought about the question