The Wistful Asylum
The bell rings. It is a heavy sound. Bronze. It shakes the dust from the rafters. You stand up. Your knees crack. You are tired. You are always tired. You look down at your hands. They are stained. Ink. Dark blue. It is under your nails. It is in the creases. You cannot wash it out. You try. The water runs brown. You rub harder. The skin bleeds. You stop. It is part of you now. You pick up the...
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