The Pale Protocol
The lichen spreads. It is white. It is still. It eats the stone. I write this by the window. The glass is cold. My breath fogs it. I wipe the mist away. The view is clear. Outside, the garden. The lichen covers the wall. It covers the gate. It covers the name plate. I am Elias. I am here. The walls are high. They are white. They are clean. There are no cracks. There are no weeds. I sit at the...
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