The Wistful Show
The rain hammers the tin roof. It is a drumroll. It is a warning. You are bleeding from the lip. You taste copper. It tastes like coins. It tastes like the end. The shop is dark. The dust motes dance in the single beam of light that cuts through the boarded window. You are a tailor. You are a merchant of thread and tension. You are a man who has stitched his life into the fabric of others. And...
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