The Wistful Atlas
You are in the cellar. The air is thick. It smells of damp stone and old bone. You sit on a wooden stool. Your hands are bound. The rope bites into your wrists. It is tight. It is red. You do not move. You have not moved in hours. Your head hangs low. Your eyes are fixed on the table before you. On the table sits a clay bowl. It is simple. It is rough. It is filled with a grey paste. The paste...
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