The Wistful Asylum
You are walking through the city, which is not a city but a wound that has forgotten how to heal, a sprawling expanse of grey stone and wet cobblestones where the fog does not lift but thickens, pressing against your skin like a damp cloth that never dries, and you are looking for something, or rather, you are trying to forget that you are looking for something, because the looking itself is a...
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