The Wistful Letter
The coat lay on the chair by the window, a dark, heavy silhouette against the pale, indifferent light of the afternoon, and I stood before it with a feeling of such profound, aching disassociation from my own body that I might have been observing a stranger’s garment, one that had been discarded in a fit of sudden, violent clarity. It was a wool thing, deep navy, almost black, with the kind of...
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