The Wistful Campus
Your hand is gone. Not missing. Gone. The skin is smooth. Unbroken. No scar. No stump. Just the pale, unblemished whiteness of your wrist, ending in nothing. You look down. You look again. Your fingers are there. Five of them. They twitch. They are warm. But the palm? The connection? It is severed. In the air. You are in the lecture hall. Row forty. The last row. The light is gray. The dust...
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