The Golden Circuit
The ink on this page has dried, but my hands still tremble, as if I am holding a glass filled with water that is slowly turning to gold. I write this by the flickering gaslight in the basement of the St. Jude’s Institution for the Deaf and Dumb, a place where silence is not an absence but a heavy, breathing thing. It is the eve of the Winter Solstice, and the wind outside screeches against the...
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