The Pale Garden
You have to understand, or at least pretend to, that the ink does not bleed because it is wet, but because it is hungry. The facility, which the brochures politely called The Sanctuary for Non-Human Linguistic Preservation, was a concrete box buried under the Virginia hill, a mouth that did not open, a throat that did not swallow, just a space where sound went to die. I sat on the cold steel...
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