The Distant Legend
The hand is still. You watch it. The knuckles are swollen, the skin mapped with veins like dry riverbeds. It rests on the table. The table is wood. The wood is cold. You are alone. The room is small. The walls are close. The air is thin. You breathe. The breath is shallow. You do not look up. You look at the hand. It is your hand. Or it is not. The ambiguity is the point. The hand holds...
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