The Distant Garden
I walked. The road was long. It stretched out before me, pale and endless. I wore the gray. It was not a color. It was a stain. The fabric hung heavy on my shoulders. It felt like wet earth. I carried the weight. It was my own weight. The air was thin. It tasted of iron and old smoke. I had been walking for days. Or perhaps weeks. Time did not move in a straight line here. It looped. It bled....
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