The Wistful Asylum

added blog Literature

2026-08-21 09:25:23 -

"You're bleeding." I look down. The red is bright against the grey wool of my tunic. It is not my blood. It is thick. It smells of iron and old rain. "Who did this?" I ask. The man on the floor does not answer. He stares at the ceiling. The ceiling is made of words. Great, black letters float in the air, drifting like ash. They do not make sense. They shift and change as I watch. One word...

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