The Wistful Grid
The ink is still wet on this page, a dark stain that refuses to dry, just as my hands refuse to stop trembling, and I am writing this from the cold stone floor of the archive room where the air smells of dust and decayed paper, a scent that has become so intimately woven into the fibers of my skin that I can no longer distinguish the smell of the building from the smell of my own despair. I am...
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