The Faded Sutra
The tin cup sits in your hands, heavy with the condensation of a cold that has seeped into the marrow of your bones, and the water inside it, dark and murky from the rain that has battered the valley for three days straight, reflects a face that looks less like a man and more like a ghost of a man, stripped of its dignity by the mud that clogs your boots and the iron discipline that has...
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