The Wistful Campus
The mortar in the walls of the keep is crumbling, and you know that the sweetness of the honey you once loved has turned sour, a decay that mirrors the slow erosion of the stone itself, as you sit in the corner of the windowless cellar where the air is thick with the dust of centuries and the faint, cloying scent of spoiled figs that seem to rot faster than time allows, and you think about how...
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