The Golden Circuit
The leather of your gloves is stiffening. You have worn them for forty years. They were soft once, supple as a sleeping cat. Now they are hard as bone. The skin of your hands is wrapped in them, invisible, protected, and slowly disappearing. You sit in the back of the carriage. The wheels turn. The sound is a low, rhythmic grinding. It sounds like teeth chewing on iron. You do not look up. You...
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