The boy saw the world only in black and white. A bright glow surrounded everything, like a vignette of blinding light that framed the image but hid nothing. Colors were stories that others told, stories he couldn't understand. His parents had taken him to many doctors,
I see her in Venice, one afternoon when the sun is low, and the shadows grow long. She leans casually against an old stone wall, a cigarette between her lips, watching the hustle and bustle of the city with a look of serene detachment. It seems
As a small side street in Sarajevo, hidden from the hustle and bustle of the main roads, I am a silent witness to history. My cobblestones have borne the weight of centuries and heard the stories of countless people. Here, historical figures, changing rulers, and ordinary