The Pale Fracture
The tea is cold. You taste the metallic tang of stagnation on your tongue. It tastes like iron. Like blood. You are in the car. The engine idles. A low, guttural growl that vibrates through the soles of your shoes. The dashboard glows. A sick, amber hum. Outside, the world is gray. A uniform sheet of ash. You drive. The wheels turn. The road stretches. Endless. Straight. A line drawn by a...
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