The Faded Root
The left hand of Arthur Pym was a thing of peculiar persistence. It did not age, nor did it fade, though the rest of him was rapidly dissolving into the beige wallpaper of the basement office. He sat in the chair, the one with the broken caster that had long since surrendered its rolling function, and stared at his fingers. They were long, pale, and absolutely clean. There was no dirt under the...
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