The Wistful Voyage
The kitchen table is covered in the detritus of a life you are trying to swallow whole, a landscape of porcelain shards and spilled wine that smells faintly of iron and old rose petals, and you stand in the center of it with your hands trembling so violently that the spoon you are holding, the one you have been gripping for three hours, has begun to dig a crescent of pain into your palm, a pain...
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