The Pale Altar
The wall is thin. You know this. You have pressed your ear to it every night for three years. You hear the breathing on the other side. It is not the breathing of the man who lives there. It is the breathing of the system. You are in the white room. The paint is peeling in long, sick strips. It looks like skin. Your hands are shaking. You are holding the glass. It is empty. You filled it an...
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