The Faded Apartment
The fracture in my left index finger, a hairline fissure that had begun as a dull ache three winters ago, had finally given way to a jagged, splintered break that bled not red, but a thin, viscous amber, the color of old resin, the color of the varnish on the walls of this stone cell where I have spent the better part of my life. I do not look at it; I cannot look at it, for to look would be to...
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