The Pale Letter
The room is bright. Too bright. You stand. The floor is cold. You are a tree. No. You are a soldier. You are standing in the middle of a banquet. The air smells of wine. Old wine. Dust. Wax. You look down. Your hands are still. They are not shaking. Good. You are the oak. The oak does not shake. The oak holds the sky. The oak bears the fruit. The oak stands. Around you, they talk. They raise...
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