The Distant Journey
The river is not water but a slow, breathing vein of mercury, pulsing with a light that has no source, and you stand at the edge of the black mud, holding your sister’s hand so tightly that your knuckles have turned the color of old bone, and you know, with the absolute certainty of a stone dropped into a deep well, that you are already late, that the hour has passed, that the sun you have been...
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