The Faded Root
You wear the coat. It is wool. Heavy. Gray. It smells of dust and old iron. You have worn it for three days. The collar chafes your neck. You do not adjust it. You cannot. It is part of you now. Or it is eating you. You do not know which. The train moves. The wheels click. Click. Click. You sit by the window. The glass is dirty. You trace a circle with your finger. Outside, the fields are...
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