The Distant Promise
The jar sits on the windowsill, a small, opaque cylinder of glass filled with a substance that looks less like food and more like a solidified scream, a dense, amber-colored gel that pulses with a slow, viscous rhythm you can almost hear in the hollows of your ears. It is the only object in this apartment that does not age, does not yellow, does not gather the fine, grey dust of a city that...
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