The Wistful Atlas
"Look at the tide gauge. It is lying to us." I turn. You are standing by the window. The glass is cold. Your breath fogs it. You wipe it away. A small circle of clarity remains. Then the fog returns. "The sensor is calibrated," I say. "The data is sound." "Data is dead," you say. "Look at the water." I look. The sea is gray. Flat. It moves with a slow, heavy rhythm. It does not rise. It does...
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