The Wistful Witness
The soup is cold. You taste the metal on your tongue. It is not iron. It is the taste of the room. You sit at the table. The table is wood. The wood is old. The wood is you. "Are you eating?" The voice comes from the chair across. It is your voice. The man in the chair looks like you. But older. Tired. His eyes are red. He holds a spoon. The spoon is silver. "Yes," you say. "Good," he says. "It...
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