The Wistful Letter
The dust is thick. It coats your tongue. It settles in the creases of your knuckles. You are in the room. The room is dark. The walls breathe. They do not breathe like lungs. They breathe like skin. They expand. They contract. You feel the pulse. It is not your pulse. It is the house. The house is alive. The house is hungry. You are the food. You are the key. You are the lock. You are the door....
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