The Distant Machine
The letter is dated three days ago, though the ink has dried with a matte, finality that suggests a much longer time has passed since the pen touched the paper. You are sitting in the back of a truck that smells of wet wool and diesel, the vibration of the engine a low hum that travels up through your spine and settles behind your eyes. It is raining. The rain is not falling; it is existing, a...
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