The Distant Machine
The coal dust settles in your lungs before you even realize you have inhaled it, a fine grey powder that tastes of old pennies and burnt earth, and you are walking, you are always walking, along the cracked ribbon of the road that cuts through the moor like a scar that never quite healed, your boots sinking into the mud with a wet, sucking sound that seems to echo in the hollow of your own...
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