The Distant Wound

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2026-08-17 11:08:03 -

The Distant Wound

The dream was of bees. They were not yellow. They were the color of bruised plums. They hummed a low, mechanical note that vibrated in the teeth. I woke with the taste of copper on my tongue. The ceiling fan turned. Slow. White. I lay there. Counting the blades. Four. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a clerk. I file. I stamp. I wait. The office is grey. The light is grey. My hands are grey. I have...

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