The Pale Protocol
March 14. The rain in London does not fall; it hangs. It is a fine, gray mist that settles into the pores. It is a protocol of dampness. I am in the lobby of the Ashworth Tower. The marble is cold. My hands are cold. The ink in my pen is dry. I have not written in three years. I write now because the cycle closes. Because I am ready to break the seal. I am a foreigner here. I am a ghost in the...
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