The Distant Machine
The ink has dried, but the stain remains. It is a dark, viscous blot upon the parchment of my memory, a smear of absolute black that defies the eraser of time, and I find myself, in this cold hour of the morning when the wind howls through the cracks of the stone walls like a wounded beast, tracing its edge with a trembling finger that knows no comfort, only the cold reality of what I have...
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