The Distant Wound
The ink on your wrist is not merely paint, but a brand of identity so deep it has stained the dermis, a cartographic error in the flesh that the State has deemed a criminal act, a mark of the Unwritten who refuse the final calibration of the soul. You are ten years old, and you carry this secret with the heavy, silent gravity of a stone swallowed in the dark, for you know that the Ministry of...
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