The Pale Fracture
You are cold. The cold is not weather. It is architecture. It is the hum of the ventilation shafts. It is the taste of iron in your mouth. You are here. You are always here. The room is white. The walls are seamless. There are no corners. Only angles. Sharp ones. You sit. You have been sitting for hours. Perhaps days. Time is a fluid thing here. It pools in the drains. It evaporates from the...
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