The Distant Journey
"Look at it," said Julian, his voice thin as wire. "The leaves are turning brown. The whole world is rotting, and you sit here polishing your desk." I did not look up. My hands moved in a slow, circular motion over the mahogany. The wood was dark, almost black, and it held the ghost of every hand that had ever touched it. "It is not rotting, Julian. It is changing." "Changing into what? Dust?...
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