The Pale Circus

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2026-08-19 02:15:55 -

The Pale Circus

The lamp oil sputtered. It was a thin, sickly sound, like a throat clearing before a cough. I watched the flame die. Then it caught again. The room was cold. The frost had eaten the windows. It was a web of white ice, delicate and cruel. I held the glass in my hand. It was warm. That was the only warmth left in the house. I am a man who listens. I do not speak much. Words are heavy things. They...

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