The Distant Machine
The ink has dried on the page, but the smell of the damp earth still clings to the fibers of the paper, a heavy, organic rot that refuses to be scrubbed away, and you know with a certainty that borders on the physical pain that you are not writing this for the men in the uniformed offices of the Ministry of Interior, who view your actions as a lapse in protocol, a minor deviation from the rigid...
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