The Empty World
He woke in the morning. This was not unusual. Mornings came whether you woke or not, and he had learned early that sleeping through them was a waste. He lay on his back and looked at the ceiling. It was white and cracked, with a water stain in the shape of a country he could not name. He had been looking at this ceiling for fifteen years, give or take a month, and he still could not name the...
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