The Distant Journey
The bread is stale. You know this because the crust cracks under your thumb, shedding a fine, gray dust that settles on your sleeve. It is not a bad thing. Staleness is preservation. Staleness is the refusal to rot, to give in to the soft, sweet decay that the world demands of you. You place the loaf on the table. The wood is cold. The house is cold. Your mother watches you. She does not speak....
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