The Distant Machine
The ink on this page is not merely black but a bruised purple, seeping into the grain of the parchment like a wound that refuses to close, and I write these words from the cold, iron-runged cell of the Imperial Conservatory, where the air tastes of ozone and crushed thyme, a flavor that has become so familiar to my tongue that I can no longer distinguish it from the taste of my own blood, which...
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