The Faded Paradox
The soot in your lungs is a heavy, metallic taste that settles deep in the alveoli, a permanent residency you cannot evict. You are sitting in the basement of the Whitmore Textile Mill, surrounded by the smell of wet wool and ozone, the air thick with the particulate matter of an industry that devours the softness of the world to produce the stiffness of progress. You are not a man, or at...
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