The Golden Myth
You tell them the truth. It is not a weapon. It is a stone in your mouth. You swallow it. It sits heavy in your gut. The room is bright. Too bright. Fluorescent lights hum. They buzz like angry bees. The walls are white. Sterile. Cold. You are Thomas Bradshaw. You are old. Your hands shake. You hold a file. It is thin. It contains your life. Or what they think is your life. They sit across from...
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