The Distant Machine
The parchment in your hands is brittle, yellowed by centuries of handling, yet the ink remains a stark, defiant black against the fibrous texture of the animal skin, a testament to the enduring weight of the words you are about to read, which were dictated by your own voice into the ear of a scribe who trembled not from fear but from the sheer, crushing gravity of the truth he was compelled to...
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