The Distant Metropolis
The silence in the kitchen was not an absence of sound, but a heavy, pressurized substance, thick as the flour dust that hung suspended in the pale, slanting beams of the morning light. I stood before the counter, my hands submerged in the cold, viscous mixture, the rhythmic kneading a mechanical act that required no thought, a physical exorcism of the night’s terrors. The house, a sprawling...
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