The Distant Garden
The press hums. It is a low, industrial drone, a sound that lives in the teeth before it reaches the ears. You stand at the console. The steel is cold. The paper is warm. This is the distinction that matters. The distinction that will define you. The distinction that will bury you. Your name is Thomas Bradshaw. You are a typesetter. You are a craftsman of the printed word. You arrange the lead....
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