The Wistful Mirror
The dust of the road is thick enough to taste, a gritty, coppery smear against the back of your tongue that does not wash away no matter how many times you press the heel of your hand against your lips, and you are running, or perhaps stumbling, for the distinction has long since eroded in the heat of the chase, your lungs burning with a fire that feels less like pain and more like the slow,...
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