The Wistful Incense
The gavel strikes, and the sound is not a sound at all but a physical blow to the sternum, a dull thud that vibrates through the mahogany desk and into your bones. You do not look up. You are looking at the grain of the wood, a swirl of dark and light that resembles a fingerprint, or perhaps the whorl of a storm system seen from a great height. You are looking at it because if you look at the...
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