The Distant Threshold
The ink bled into the skin. It did not stain; it sank. I watched my own hand as I carved the final curve into the birch block. The tool was a chisel, sharp and cold, but the resistance felt warm, like flesh yielding to a lover’s touch. I am a carver. Or I was. Now I am a man who works in the archives of the Department of Civil Records, a place of dust and silence where history is filed, not...
0 Kommentare 0 Geteilt 2 Ansichten 0 Bewertungen