The Wistful Incense
The can is dented. The label is peeling. It sits on the steel table. I hold it. It is cold. It is heavy. The room is white. The lights hum. They buzz low. It is a drone. It is constant. I am in the box. The box is small. The walls are close. I count the tiles. One. Two. Three. Four. I stop at four. I do not go further. Going further is bad. Going further is dangerous. I am a man. I am a...
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