The Distant Ghost
The wool of the scarf is fraying, the deep indigo threads unraveling into thin, ghostly strands that catch on the iron grating of the ventilation shaft where you are currently suspended, your boots slipping on the slick, condensation-sweated metal, while above you the weight of the institution presses down with the cold, indifferent gravity of a collapsing star. You are holding the scarf tight...
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