The Wistful Letter
I have always dreamed that the coal cellar beneath my father’s house in the industrial district of Whitmore-on-Sea was not a place of storage, but a throat, a vast and dark esophagus waiting to swallow the night whole, and in that recurring, suffocating dream I am not the soldier who has returned home with the mud of foreign trenches caked into the crevices of my soul, but the object itself,...
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