The Pale Altar
You drive north. The highway stretches like a scar across the gray fields. It is late autumn. The leaves are gone. The branches are bare black sticks against the white sky. You hold the wheel. Your hands are steady. They have always been steady. You are a clerk. You fill out forms. You stamp documents. You do not feel much. You do not show much. You are invisible. This is your life. The radio...
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