The Wistful Grid
The ink on the page is still wet, a dark smear that seems to bleed into the grain of the paper as I press the nib down, and I find myself staring at the word *grid* until it loses its meaning and becomes merely a pattern of intersecting lines, a cage, a map, a thing that holds the world together while simultaneously tearing it apart. I am writing this to you, my dearest, my only, the only...
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