The Distant Journey
The rain tastes like iron. You taste it on your tongue. It is a thick, metallic slide. Your hands are shaking. Look at them. The skin is peeling. The knuckles are swollen. You are holding a pen. It is a good pen. A Parker. Black lacquer. Gold clip. It is the only thing you have left. The other things are gone. The books are gone. The notes are gone. The years are gone. You are in the Hall. The...
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