The Wistful Letter
I have always been haunted by the specific, hollow resonance of a clock that has stopped, a sound that is not silence but the absence of motion, a vacuum in the air where time used to tick, and it is within this auditory void that I find myself standing, not in the present, but in the amber-preserved twilight of my own decline, surrounded by the dust motes that dance in the slanted, dying light...
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