The Pale Protocol
March 14. The moss is green. It is not just green. It is alive. I press my face into the carpet. The fibers are soft. They are thick. They are wet. I breathe. The air tastes of loam. Of rot. Of life. My name is Elias Thorne. I am a clerk. I sit at a desk. The desk is wood. The wood is grain. The grain is dark. I type. The keys are cold. The keys are hard. I type names. I type numbers. I type...
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