The Faded Sutra
The hand you wear is not a hand at all, but a relic of bone and sinew that has been picked clean by time, a skeletal cage of yellowed cartilage and dried tendon that you have spent the last forty years polishing with the frantic, desperate energy of a man trying to scrub the rust from a gate that will never open, and you sit now in the high-backed chair by the window where the light falls in...
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