The Pale Dance
The ink is black. It is not blue. It is not violet. It is the absolute absence of light. You hold the pen in your right hand. Your fingers are stained. The stain is permanent. It has been there for three weeks. It will be there for the rest of your life. You are a Senior Archivist at the Department of Historical Records, London. The building is stone. The air is dry. The heating pipes groan. It...
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