The Wistful Incense
The wool of the cassock clings to your skin with a damp, heavy insistence, a second layer of flesh that has long since ceased to be mere fabric and has become the very architecture of your soul, woven from the same threads of silence and penance that bind you to the altar. You stand before the mirror in the cold stone refectory, the light from the high, narrow windows filtering through a haze...
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