Julian Thorn died on a Tuesday in October 1895, and the white cat sat on the windowsill and watched the rain, and the absinthe bottle sat empty on the divan beside him, and the room smelled of sand...
He was thirty-two years old. He had consumed himself slowly -- not dramatically, not in a blaze of opium and absinthe and midnight revels, but through the small, daily decisions of a man who chooses nothing over everything, who prefers the dimly lit salon to the daylight, who surrounds himself with Byzantine ivories and Japanese screens and exotic flowers that bloom once and are thrown away,...
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