The Distant Wound
The porcelain bowl sits in the center of the kitchen table, a white eye staring up at the ceiling, its surface fractured by a single, jagged line that runs from the rim to the base, a scar that has not yet bled but is ready to. You are sitting across from it, your hands wrapped around a mug of tea that has gone cold, the steam long since vanished into the damp air of this room in Seattle, where...
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