The Distant Joke

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2026-08-20 09:25:48 -

The Distant Joke

The ledger sat open. The ink was dry. I am a maker of things. Not grand things. Small things. Brass gears for pocket watches. Gaskets for engines that no longer exist. My hands are stained with oil. The stain is permanent. It lives under the nails. It lives in the pores. It is the map of my life. The workshop is quiet. The dust motes dance in the shafts of light. They are fat and slow. I watch...

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