The Pale Path
The coat is blue. Not the blue of the sky, which has long since forgotten how to be blue, but the deep, arterial blue of a vein pressed against paper. You know this because you have held it for three days. You have held it in your hands, in your mouth, in the hollow of your throat where the air tastes of iron and static. It is a heavy garment. It weighs more than cloth should. It weighs the...
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