The Distant Affair
The ink is wet. It dries black. You hold the stamp in your right hand, the weight of it familiar as a bone. The paper is white. The machine hums. You are twelve. You sit at the desk. The desk is oak. The wood is cold. The room is large. The walls are gray. The light is fluorescent. It buzzes. It is always buzzing. You count the hum. One. Two. Three. The hum is a wire. The wire is tight. Your...
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