The Wistful Grid
The coat is hanging on the hook by the door, and it is wearing you. That is the only way to describe it, isn’t it? The wool has turned grey, not with age, but with a kind of specific, institutional dust that settles in the creases of your elbows and the hollows of your spine. You touch the fabric now, your fingers dragging across the sleeve, feeling the pilling, the thinning where the shoulders...
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