The Wistful Incense
The ink is still wet on the ledger, a dark, viscous tear in the parchment that stains the knuckles of your right hand, and you are already trembling, not from the cold that seeps through the floorboards of the scriptorium but from the sheer, crushing weight of the syntax you are about to construct. This is the year of the Lord’s patience, or perhaps his wrath, for the light in this windowless...
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