The Pale Meridian
The jar sits on the counter, a heavy, opaque block of blue glass that has absorbed the humidity of the last three months and is now weeping condensation onto the scratched laminate, a slow, cold tear that runs down the surface and pools in the corner where the drain gurgles, and you watch it with a stillness that feels less like peace and more like the held breath of a corpse, because you are...
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