The Wistful Grid
You sit at the edge of the mahogany desk in the administrative wing, the surface cool and polished under the sterile, humming light of the fluorescent tubes that have buzzed without interruption for the past six hours, a sound that has slowly ceased to be a sound and has become a texture, a fine-grained static that coats the back of your throat and settles in the hollows of your ears. The air...
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