The Distant Summer
The glass jar sits on your desk. It is thick, heavy, and filled with a liquid that used to be clear. Now it is a swirling, opaque white. You do not remember putting it there. You do not remember buying it. It is simply there, a silent, heavy presence on the mahogany surface, catching the pale, fluorescent light of the office. You are a clerk. You process forms. You file papers. You move from...
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