The Faded Sutra
The ivy is dying. It is dying in the walls, in the floorboards, in the marrow of your bones. You are Margaret, and you are the vine. The ivy is not a plant here. It is a prison. It is the green, creeping rot of a life you did not choose. It wraps around your throat. It chokes the light. You do not pull at it. You do not scream. You let it tighten. You let it crush the soft tissue of your ribs....
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