The Distant Machine
The ink has dried, but the page still smells of the damp, of the iron filings that rust in the gutters of this strange, breathing city, and you know, with a certainty that has settled into your marrow like a splinter, that you will never leave the Factory again, not because you are trapped by walls or chains, but because the door has ceased to exist in the geometry of your life, and this is the...
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