The Golden Circuit
The ink is still wet on the page. My hand shakes. I do not know why. The candle guttering in the corner casts long, jagged shadows against the wallpaper, peeling like dead skin. I am writing this by the light of a single tallow stick. It burns with a low, mournful hiss. Outside, the wind howls through the eaves of the mill. It sounds like a beast trapped in the walls. I am a man of letters. Or...
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