The Wistful Asylum
The clock on the wall ticks. It is a heavy sound. You count the seconds. One. Two. Three. Your left hand rests on the desk. The skin is thin. The veins are blue. You look at them. They are like roots under soil. Your father’s hand looked the same. You remember his fingers. They were strong. Now yours are weak. You are the scholar. You have studied this place. You know its history. You know its...
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